


Insignificant

by shiju333



Series: Insignificant [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 78,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiju333/pseuds/shiju333
Summary: When he finds himself, fully human, returned to Domino, Japan after a year of non existence, the crash from infamy does not sit well with the spirit of the Millennium Ring. *Trigger Warning* Rated for: language, eating disorders and self harm. Cross-post from ff.net aka it's about time I put this here.
Relationships: None
Series: Insignificant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051466
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm only saying this once: Yu-Gi-Oh! is owned by Kazuki Takahashi and various television networks. I do not own it, nor would I ever be able to come up with something as magnanimous as it.

Chapter 1: Return

…

Solomon Mouto closed Kame Game Shop on a chilly evening in mid March as the screams from the living room above the shop escalated. Solomon ran up the stairs to see what predicament warranted such a high noise level. He stopped suddenly as two people he thought were long gone fought viciously in his living room. Solomon glanced at the ancient Pharaoh Atem, at his multi-colored hair much like his grandson's, and Yami Bakura, whom Yugi had explained was the spirit embodiment of Zorc Necrophades and Thief King Bakura. He inhaled sharply.

The two spirits, Solomon assumed they were still spirits, turned at the unexpected noise. "Grandpa," Atem said, happy to see his partner's grandfather as he realized why this place had seemed so familiar.

Yami Bakura sneered and muttered something darkly under his breath. Solomon chose to ignore him and focus on the problem on hand as a whole. The year and a half after Yugi completed the Millennium Puzzle had stripped him of reacting poorly to odd situations. Instead, he sought Yugi out. Finding him sitting on the couch with a confused expression, Solomon inquired about the, presumably dead, spirits of the Millennium Puzzle and Ring.

Yugi shrugged. "I don't really know. I heard screaming..." Yugi was cut off by Yami Bakura lunging at Atem in retaliation of a comment Atem had said minutes before.

"Pathetic!" He roared, a fist curled in mid air, ready to smack against Atem's face. "You call me pathetic, Pharaoh? I'll have you know, I am darkness!" He caught Atem's neck in a tight grip.

"And I defeated you," Atem stated calmly. He stared directly into Yami Bakura's eyes, as if not noticing the trembling fist a few inches from his face. Atem smirked as Yami Bakura's other fist tightened around his neck. "Violence? How befitting for someone of your status." He looked down his nose at the expression twisting Yami Bakura's face further.

As the quarrel threatened to turn physical, and far far uglier, Yugi made a motion to his ear, mimicking a cellular phone call. Solomon blinked and imperceptivity nodded his head as the two spirits resumed their earlier fight, conveying that Yugi should, in fact, sneak off to call his group of friends before the situation became uncontrollable. Yugi walked into the kitchen to murmur quietly into the cordless phone.

"And what do you mean by that?" Yami Bakura ground out in an ugly tone.

Atem's smirk widened. "That is your only effective strategy."

Solomon placed a hand on Atem's shoulder, making sure to stay out of Yami Bakura's line of fire. Just in case. Atem jumped back, quickly composing himself when he realized where he was and who was observing his interactions. "May I ask, what is going on?"

Atem turned, dodging Yami Bakura's released punch. He cocked his head, and waved a hand in the other's direction as if to explain the entire fight, effectively shrugging off any blame. "That is not what I mean. How are you here? You both," Solomon emphasized. "Have been gone from our world for a year."

Both the spirits' eyes widened at this announcement. "How can that be?" Atem asked as Bakura cursed and muttered, "You're lying."

"The last thing I remember is walking to paradise after my duel with Yugi," Atem said. He tilted his head, trying to bring up memories of paradise, and finding he could not. He remembered the end of the ceremonial duel, the tears, the aching in his chest as he walked to the platform doors to leave this world behind, the blinding, yet beautiful and peaceful, light as the doors parted. Then nothing.

Solomon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He sat down on the couch to alleviate some of the numbness that left him feeling as if his head were severed from the rest of his body. He spoke, important necessary questions, but didn't realize what was being said until it echoed back through his brain. "What about you," he addressed Yami Bakura. His voice lowered, a testament of his dissatisfaction with the former Thief King.

The spirit of the Ring's scowl deepened. "It doesn't matter." He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned against the wall, trying to meld to the hard surface.

"The last thing he remembers is my victory against him in Millennium World," Atem boasted. Solomon sighed as Yami Bakura's expression morphed from annoyed to homicidal.

"And that's why you started fighting," he concluded. Yugi returned to the living room, bearing a small tray with four cups and a tea kettle.

"Mom was making tea while I was in the kitchen," Yugi said as explanation. He handed a cup to each spirit: an indication to sit down and drink. He neglected to mention his phone calls aloud, but at his nod, Solomon understood that backup was on its way.

…

The backup arrived in the form of three males, Joey, Tristan, and Ryou. "Hey, Yug'," Joey said as the group entered the house without knocking. Ryou and Tristan wore matching expressions of concern as they let themselves in the house. Joey plopped down on the couch, in between the two spirits and grabbed a half drunk cup of tea. He took a generous swig, before noticing the spirits.

He jumped from the couch with a high-pitched shriek and spat out the green liquid. "Bakura!" He scanned the room quickly, eyes shrinking away from the spirit of the Millennium ring to latch on to the Pharaoh Atem. "Other Yugi?" he said, before correcting himself. "Atem, you're back?" His countenance darkened. "And you're back?" He glared at Yami Bakura. His fist curled around the small tea cup.

Tristan sagged against the wall, still standing near the door, one shoe off and the other momentarily forgotten, and Ryou's face drained of any color he had. "Yami?" he whispered, his voice catching even as the long disused name sprung from his lips without his conscious volition.

At that, Yami Bakura spoke, with a hint of his former arrogance, his eyes not quite as malicious, "Partner." His tone dripped with icy venom, as if Yami Bakura was plotting on how to torment his former host, tone conveying each potential abuse once inflicted by him. "Did you miss me?"

"Oh no you don't," Tristan regained his ability to function. He kicked his remaining shoe off, stepped up into the living room, and crossed the room to stand by Joey's side, near Yami Bakura, as if trying to act as a physical barrier between Ryou and Yami Bakura.

"I wouldn't worry too much about him," Atem said. He moved to stand next to Yugi, grasping his partner's hand. He knew from Yugi's extra wide eyes and placid smile, that his partner was upset. A year spent sharing a body with the boy had its benefits. He smirked at the information he intended to provide, not at all bothered by it, but knowing full well the spirit of the Ring would be seething. "I cannot summon any of my shadow magic, so I doubt he can."

Yugi's mouth dropped, then he caught himself, and closed it. That explained the sudden screaming match and borderline fist fight he had walked into, not more than an hour ago. If the two spirits couldn't summon their magic that must mean…

"You can't use your magic?" Joey looked away from Yami Bakura, who held a glaring contest with the floor, rage intensifying even as he knew he didn't have his magic to rectify the situation.

"What does that mean?" Tristan asked.

"I have some ideas," Solomon offered, "But I think I should ask Arthur about it. And we should get in touch with the Ishtars." He clicked a finger around his own tea mug.

"Ishtars, as in Marik?" Yugi asked. He leaned forward the couch, hands folded, propped under his chin. "And what ideas?"

"I think the spirits might be human," Solomon said slowly. He studied the two spirits, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Atem shifted nervously, and Yami Bakura continued to glower. Ryou's complexion regained an iota of color, so he looked sickly pale, rather than dead. "Bring me a knife," Solomon called out suddenly to Mrs. Mouto in the kitchen.

Yugi's mom stepped out of the kitchen. "Dad?" She looked at the amount of people in the living room, swiveling her head at the sight of the two extra people whom held similar physical characteristics as her son and his friend. "What is going on?"

"Get me a knife, dear," Solomon repeated.

"Grandpa?" Yugi asked, glancing from Solomon to his mother.

Mrs. Mouto returned with a steak knife. Her face screwed up in confusion. When Solomon grasped the knife, he addressed Yami Bakura, pointing at him with the knife. "Hold out your arm," he said.

Yami Bakura raised an eyebrow. He continued to keep his arms crossed. Ryou cottoned on to what Solomon was planning to do first. "No don't!" He placed himself between Joey and Tristan, who inadvertently blocked Yami Bakura, and Solomon, who still had the knife pointed at Yami Bakura. "You can't just cut him!"

Comprehension dawned on everyone's faces. Yami Bakura glanced at Ryou without his usual look of malice momentarily, as if in thanks, before hatred clouded his features again. Mrs. Mouto quickly grabbed the knife from her father's hands, tossing him a dark look to convey her displeasure, and returned it to the kitchen.

"Why can't we?" Joey asked.

"He deserves it," Tristan agreed, "after all he put us, you, through." He emphasized Yami Bakura's treatment of Ryou as a host, the constant half-awareness, the lies, the deceit.

Ryou resolutely kept his eyes on Solomon. He ignored the silent meaning in Tristan's words or the justified anger pooling in Joey's eyes. "You said he was human, yeah? No human deserves that kind of abuse."

"But he abused you!" Atem said. At his words, everyone remembered the long periods of starvation Ryou had suffered because Yami Bakura neglected his body, along with the injuries he had inflicted on Ryou. "You didn't deserve that."

"No one does," Ryou repeated. He narrowed his eyes. He snapped in anger, "If you want to prove something, why don't you test yourself?"

A few seconds passed as the occupants of the room stared at Ryou, mostly shocked by such a brash comment. Ryou never told them off—in fact, he never told his spirit off, even though he probably deserved it. Ryou blanched, looking up at Atem with apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry, Atem. I didn't mean that. Please don't cut yourself just to prove a point."

Yami Bakura laughed, a twinge of insanity present, "As if Pharaoh would scar himself for anything or anybody." He held out a hand to indicate he wanted the returned kitchen knife. Something heavy settled in his gut, and suddenly the idea of proving if he was, in fact, human consumed him. "If you're so damn interested, I'll do it."

"I don't want you to do it either."

"I don't mind," Tristan said, and Joey nodded vehemently in agreement.

When no one handed him the knife, Yami Bakura flexed his fingers on one hand, and sank his fingernails into his bare arm. Ryou's eyes widened. Atem could only stare in horror as little beads of red appeared around Yami Bakura's fingers, tainting the skin with fresh blood.

"Jesus! I knew you were crazy," Joey exclaimed then cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence. Tristan watched silently, mind spinning, but thoroughly siding with Joey's sentiment.

As the blood stained his fingernails, and the crescent shaped wounds stung, Yami Bakura felt relief. Even the proof that he was human did not, momentarily, bother him. In that instance, the red staring out in contrast against pale skin, his anger dissipated, evaporated into a hazy mist that seemed to shroud his mind.

…

The impromptu meeting disbanded quickly after Yami Bakura had cut himself with his fingernails. "You feel okay with him?" Joey had asked Ryou after leading him to a semi-private corner.

Ryou gazed at Joey, at a loss for words. His once fearsome, manically sadist of a spirit seemed subdued somehow, like the light had been cut off. It was hard to explain, but Ryou doubted he would make an attempt to hurt him, at least not tonight. And surely they would be spending the next couple weeks before the new school year figuring out this mess. Ryou replied, "I'll be fine."

"Don't forget," Tristan butted in. "This time, he doesn't share a body with you. And you're physical health doesn't affect him anymore. He doesn't have to keep you alive." He caught Ryou's eyes, forcing the other to view the concern he and the others felt for him, the worry that Ryou's semblance of a life would crumble.

Ryou swallowed. He hadn't considered that. Even almost a year after he was freed from the spirit of the Millennium Ring, he had not forgotten Yami Bakura's negligence and general lack of concern regarding his welfare, nor the havoc it wreaked on him. Still, he reassured Joey and Tristan, if only out of habit. "Guys, I'm sure it will be fine. I promise to keep my mobile on tonight, okay?"

He waved the brand new cellular phone at Joey and Tristan. A few weeks ago, out of guilt surely, Ryou's father had bought and express mailed him a top-of-the-line clamshell style cellular phone, with a promise to replace it when the rumored cellular phones with internet access became available (even as early as next year, they were saying). Ryou noticed Joey's face cloud with jealousy, and he immediately felt bad for waving around something none of his friends could afford, aside from Tea maybe.

"If you're sure?" Joey said, envy making him a bit more pliable. Ryou flashed another smile and repeated his assurances.

Ryou rushed his goodbyes, wanting to be away from the stress of the group and their needling concerns, but also afraid of what would happen when he and Yami Bakura were alone. He steeled himself for the long night that awaited them as he closed the door to the Mouto's and started their trek to his apartment.


	2. Long Journey Ahead

Chapter 2: Long Journey Ahead

…

Yami Bakura followed his former host to his apartment. He could've found the way himself, but he was perfectly content to trail behind Ryou. The droplets of blood had long since dried and caked over on his arm. Along with the fresh blood, the pain had faded. He felt light headed with the maelstrom of thoughts swirling around his head; everything about today, the unexpected return, jumbling within his head. Bakura bit the inside of cheek, desperate to not let the thoughts form fully. A part of him laughed at himself, the great Zorc Necrophades reduced to practically a sniveling schoolboy. At least he thought he as a schoolboy, if his, now human, body was the same age as Ryou. Was his host still in school?

He remembered that Yugi's grandfather had been surprised by his and Pharaoh's presence, so that must mean the boy and his former host were most likely under the age of majority. Hadn't Solomon said almost a year had passed? Bakura calculated time on a general continuum. He theorized, if a year had passed or just under a year, this was Ryou's final year of high school.

The questions in his mind came seeping out into full formed thoughts, and Yami Bakura crunched his teeth on to the soft flesh of his inner cheek. He hissed at the unexpected pain, all the while grateful for the momentary ceasing of thoughts. Ryou glanced back, halting with digging in his jeans pocket for his apartment key. "Are you alright?" he asked, proper and polite as ever.

Once Ryou opened the door, Yami Bakura brushed past him. He scowled at his host's kindness. No one could be that considerate—that kind—to someone like him. Hell, even he knew he was not worthy of any sort of pseudo forgiveness. "I'm fine."

"Okay. Good." Ryou smiled faintly. He neatly hung his winter coat on the coat hanger and slipped off his shoes in the genkan. Yami Bakura flung the black jacket he had been wearing when he and Atem appeared in Yugi's living room on the floor, and stepped up into the apartment in his shoes. He relished Ryou's pained look at the gregarious social faux pas. "Would you like some tea? I could make you steak. Rare, right?" Ryou asked, automatically offering Yami Bakura's favorite dish.

"I'm tired. I want to sleep." Ryou smiled, at the words rather than the harsh tone. Finding Yami Bakura a place to sleep was an easy enough task. With three rooms in his apartment plus the living room couch, there were more than enough areas to slumber.

"Um, you could sleep in my room, or I could prepare the guestroom?" He inwardly winced as his tone lost any confidence he had gained since last summer, softening and dragging out the syllables, and he reverted back into the sad, pathetic vessel of his spirit. Yami Bakura sneered. He must have noticed the compliant tone also.

"Sleep in your own room," Yami Bakura snarled. He stormed down the hallway to one of the two guestrooms. He chose the one near the bathroom, adjacent to Ryou's bedroom. That guestroom was hardly ever used, and hadn't been dusted properly since Ryou had moved in. The door to the room slammed shut, and Ryou heard Yami Bakura, he assumed, throwing himself on the bed. Ryou glanced outside, at the late afternoon setting sun. He hoped Yami Bakura didn't wake before he did; going to bed so early.

…

Yami Bakura flung himself on the bed in his chosen room, the former guest room, or, as he glanced around the room from his position on the bed, he deduced the room had been Ryou's sanctuary for his table top RPGs. He noted the shelves and shelves behind glass where Ryou kept his role playing figurines. A twisted smile threatened to tug his lips upwards as Yami Bakura remembered the significance behind them. He sat up to get a better view of the table top game. And, by the looks of the table, Ryou was creating a new RPG game. That could be fun.

The realization that he was human crashed over him again, leaving him high and dry, disoriented as the smirk vanished from his countenance, replaced with a sullen grimace. He leaned forward, long white hair falling to cover his face, as something heavy attacked his gut. He gritted his teeth and rubbed a hand on his arm where the leftover scratch marks ignited enough pain, enough burning tingle, to mask the thoughts screaming in his head.

His legs hurt as he leaned forward, pressing his elbows into the meat of his thighs. He bit his lip, all the while rubbing furiously at his injured arm, as the pressing weight, the tingling in his nerve endings, reminded him of his mortality. Someday, he would, eventually, die. But, between then and the present, he would suffer degrading illnesses, from sniffles and hacking coughs his host was prone to in the winter, to lengthier, ongoing, life sentences.

He swallowed down the bitter liquid pooling in his throat. He narrowed his eyes, boring his gaze into the far wall. Through this all, he would have to thrive, to adapt, to survive this new world, this modern society, where he wasn't a spirit embodiment of two malingering souls. A tiny voice, almost indiscernible even to himself, cried out at the impossible task placed upon him, by whatever being choice to spit him and the Pharaoh back into existence.

He breathed out a heavy sigh, as a crushing weight tore his breath away. Yami Bakura flopped down upon the bed, winding his arms under his head as a makeshift pillow. He gazed up at the ceiling, resolutely shoving away his fears as he studied the intricate paint design, at the swirling brush strokes, as if the painter had dipped fork tines into semi-dry paint. He lost himself in the swirling pattern of the ceiling until he awoke to the same fears he desperately tried to ignore.

…

Ryou awoke before the spirit of the Millennium Ring the next morning. He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, nerves turning over themselves. The fear made his stomach queasy, so before the sun had properly risen, Ryou was seated in the living room, a cup of tea in one hand and a notepad in the other. He supposed he should prioritize his thoughts whilst plotting out the needs of the two spirits. At the very least, it would calm his nerves.

Okay, he thought. Both Atem and Yami Bakura had returned from wherever the two had been. Neither, at the present, could remember where they had been or that time had passed. Ryou knew that almost a year had passed since the ceremonial duel last summer. He wasn't sure how to fix this predicament, or if there was even a solution, so he moved on to his next thought.

Yesterday, Mr. Mouto had wanted to contact Professor Hawkins and the Ishtars to provide proof of the spirits' humanity. Ryou assumed Mr. Mouto wanted to utilize Professor Hawkins academia connections, now that he worked as a professor of archaeology at a prestigious university. And the Ishtars, Ryou contemplated as he twirled his pen. Was Mr. Mouto trying to find out if Marik Ishtar's darkness had also returned? He wrote "contact Ishtars" and some of his thoughts about them down.

Getting a hold of the Ishtars could be difficult, Ryou mused. What he knew of the Ishtars is that Ishizu worked in the Egyptian government, so depending on the nature of her employment. And Marik: well last he knew, Marik was a rouge who had disbanded from Ishizu. He jotted down that Marik, Ishizu, and Odion had been looking forward to their freedom, so they could have moved, especially after the Pharaoh had passed onto paradise. Ryou's throat tightened, and he felt the tea he had been sipping start to slide back up his throat. He sucked in a deep breath.

Perhaps he should move on to more practical worries. Like clothes, food, permanent housing, even public schooling for the spirit of the Millennium Ring and Atem. Money could be a problem, Ryou reasoned. As he thought on this problem, slowly forming a viable answer, he felt his throat loosen and the tea settled in his stomach.

…

A loud crash and the horrific sound of glass shattering and dropping, each shard tinkling as it made contact with the floor, caused Ryou to finally look up from the multiple pages he had written on with tiny, perfect writing. "Voice?" he called, instinctively referring to the spirit of the Millennium Ring by the only term he had ever used, before standing up. He crossed the living room and stood outside the bathroom door at the edge of the hallway. "Um, do you need help?" he asked awkwardly, a half attempt after butchering a non-name for the spirit that had been part of him for so long, yet remained without a name.

"Go away." Yami Bakura's voice betrayed no awareness that Ryou had acknowledged his lack of identity.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" Ryou tried again. He leaned against the wooden door, just making out the sound of ragged gasps from the bathroom. For a moment, Ryou feared Yami Bakura was plotting to attack him with a glass shard. He steadied himself, shaking his head and rooting his feet to the ground outside the door. The spirit was human, so an impromptu attack, especially with glass, was something Ryou could likely dodge if necessary.

"I-I'm fine. Go away." Yami Bakura's voice sounded odd, detached, yet something made him pause. Ryou brushed it off as an effect of muffling from the door.

"Are you sure? I could help you pick up the glass?" Ryou offered.

"No. I'll get it." Did he sound panicked? Ryou knitted his forehead.

"Okay," Ryou gave one more, subtle, offer. "I guess I'll prepare you breakfast." As Ryou walked away, he thought he heard a sigh. Of relief? He wondered. Why would he be relieved? He chose to put the thoughts aside. Questioning Yami Bakura had never gone over well and now that the spirit had a separate body: Tristan's words washed over him in a cold wave. Human or not, Ryou certainly didn't want to attempt evading any sort of assault from Yami Bakura.

…

Yami Bakura stared into the bathroom mirror, stared at his reflection. He scowled at the face that looked back at him, at the sickly pale skin, too thin physique, at the shadows under his eyes. And his eyes: taking in the brown orbs flecked with hints red, unlike Ryou's, which were light, his eyes were opaque, like lumps of clay. Yami Bakura couldn't quite place what exactly was off about his eyes.

He sneered to cover the slickness in the back of his throat, the anxiety rising as a silent scream, threatening to turn physical. He swallowed. The mirror loomed in his direct view. It proved inescapable, and the desperation, the silent scream rushed over him, boiling in his stomach.

He clenched the edges of the sink, wondering why he felt this way. He raised his head, forcing himself to look at the grim sight. He had been the great Thief King Bakura; he had been fused with Zorc Necrophades. Bakura gritted his teeth against the awful sensation in his throat. It pressed uncomfortable, always present, like a lump he just could not swallow.

He teeth ached as he pressed them together tightly against the tingling in his lips. He blinked against the buzzing at the corner of his eyes, and cursed himself for whatever these sensations were. When the foreign lump dislodged itself from his throat, he gasped in a shaky breath. He had to halt this… This cacophony, the buzzing at his eyes, the pounding starting in his head, the ache like a vise clamped against his heart, the everything that threatened to overwhelm him, that threatened to consume him from the inside out. The slickness in his throat returned.

He had been aware of his hand smashing into the mirror even before he acted. It wasn't like a melodrama where he blinked back in confusion, trying to pinpoint the source of pain, the reasons and logic behind the intense pain. It just was. Yami Bakura raised his hand, curled into a fist, fully cognizant of everything, of the stabbing in his chest, the fucking thing stopping up his throat, his breaths coming in gasps. He sucked in a breath, body reacting slightly faster than his brain.

As images of blood welling against his arm, staining the tips of his fingernails red, Yami Bakura punched the mirror. His hand connected, with an audible crack, sending spider web cracks along the mirror in the opposite direction of the point of origin. A tinkling filled his ears as glass shards rained to the floor. Now, as he stared into the mirror, partially zoned out in the pleasant fog similar to the day before, all he could make out were four splotches of bright red blood staining the once smooth surface. He inhaled, pleased to note how much easier he breathed without his body reacting strangely.

The pain didn't register until Ryou questioned him from the hallway, a sharp, bruising pain interspersed with shooting jabs that occupied every thought, enough to keep the rising panic at bay long enough to make small conversation with his former host. He deterred Ryou's questioning long enough to clean up the worse of the mess and bandage his hand, similar to the time he stabbed Ryou. His hand shook pleasantly as the pain kept his mind blissfully blank; he plucked a shard from the mirror and pocketed it without considering why.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /N:
> 
> A genkan is probably closest to a foyer or a mudroom. It's a room in most Japanese homes where everyone is expected to take off their shoes before entering, rather than a mudroom where it is generally considered polite to remove your shoes. Some business and schools have lockers where students put their outdoor shoes and slip on indoor shoes. In a home, socks or slippers are usually accepted.
> 
> I don't know if paint for ceilings is common in Japan. I could probably find out, but I personally love staring at paintings (I use paintings loosely; really anything with paint) and at the individual brush strokes, so I foisted this interest on Yami Bakura.
> 
> In my other two fanfictions (in case anyone has read them and plans to call me out on terminology haha), I use the term toilet to describe the room with a toilet, because a bath/shower is in a separate room from the toilet. However, apartments in Japan do combine the two sometimes (the bathing area/shower area is called an ofuro). In my head, while writing this, I imagine Ryou's apartment has a bathroom with a toilet and shower/bath, and a toilet (or our equivalent of a half bath). …I promise this detail will be important in about six chapters.
> 
> I also promise the name confusion for our two main characters will clear up in chapter five. ^_^


	3. Discussions and the Obligatory Mall Scene

Chapter 3: Discussions and the Obligatory Mall Scene

…

Yami Bakura walked into the kitchen, just as Ryou was finishing his steak. Ryou noticed the bandage on Yami Bakura's hand as he set the steak onto a plate to rest before he served it to the spirit of the Millennium Ring. He ignored the sickening smell of cooked beef, akin to the rot of flesh, wafting from the steak, choosing to fix himself another cup of tea.

"Is your hand alright?" he asked in what he hoped was a polite tone, devoid of the nausea that churned in his gut.

Yami Bakura nodded, before realizing Ryou couldn't see him as he still had his back turned, making that stinking tea of his. "Fine," he muttered at Ryou set the dripping steak in front of him, along with a knife and fork. Ryou sat down across from him with his tea. Yami Bakura watched as Ryou held the steaming cup with both hands, constantly running his hands and fingers all over the expanse of the small cup. The longer he watched, Yami Bakura noticed the repetitive pattern Ryou's fingers completed as he routinely grasped at his mug in a queer manner.

"You're cooking skills aren't up to par," he commented after his second bite of the steak, forcing himself to remove his focus from Ryou's fingers smudging patterns into the porcelain cup. Sure the food was good, but Ryou had been a superb cook when he had made food for Yami Bakura last time. Not that Yami Bakura would ever admit that fact aloud.

"Um, sorry. I don't eat steak much." Ryou apologized, sipping on his tea after he spoke.

"Well, you should. You wouldn't be so pale if you ate bloody steak." Yami Bakura cut a piece, and Ryou watched as some blood dribbled onto the plate, staining the white porcelain a light pink with each drop. Yami Bakura popped the large-ish piece in his mouth, chewing with his mouth half open. Ryou felt his nose scrunching and lips curling as he watched the gnashing of Yami Bakura's teeth against the chunk of meat, all squishing into a matted jumble of saliva and clotted meat lumps. He ducked his head so the spirit wouldn't see his disgusted sneer. His earlier nausea returned full force, and Ryou clasped a hand over his mouth, running from the room.

Yami Bakura shrugged at Ryou's response, and continued cutting and eating his steak. It bled similarly to how his knuckles had bled when he had punched out the mirror, running across the flat surface of his plate in little rivulets. He stared at his knife as he cut the thick piece of meat; would his skin part as smoothly with a couple hacks with a knife? He held the knife out, suspended in midair, and brought his unbandaged hand up to meet the knife. He cautiously poked at the knife with his index finger.

Ryou's loud retching in the bathroom made him drop the knife. It fell with a clatter against the table. As Ryou gagged and coughed, Bakura found he didn't have much of an appetite anymore, the bite of steak in his mouth dry and chewy. He threw out the remaining steak and placed his dishes in the sink. Out of habit, he reasoned.

…

When Ryou and Yami Bakura returned to the Mouto residence to hopefully find a solution to this mess, Yugi's living room was already occupied by Joey, Tristan, and Tea, plus Yami Yugi and Yugi. "Morning, Ryou," Joey greeted around a yawn. He pointedly ignored Yami Bakura, who leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed. He kept his injured hand tucked under his arm.

Ryou acknowledged the occupants in the room with polite hellos and good mornings, and then revealed the lists he finished after the awkward breakfast.

As he thumbed through the pages filled with Ryou's cramped writing, Tristan breathed out a low whistle, "Did you eat or sleep, at all, Bakura?"

Ryou shrugged, hoping the question would die with Tristan. Tea and Joey shot him concerned looks. He glanced down at his lists, examining the contents akin to writing worthy of Moses' stone tablets. "Um, I put together a list of how we should approach this situation."

"What do you mean?" Atem asked from his spot on the couch next to Yugi. Ryou smiled at Atem's curiosity, and everyone's attention shifting from his personal life.

"Well, for one, as Mr. Mouto said last night, we do need to contact the Ishtars. Has Marik's darkness returned?" Ryou asked in a rush, to keep the conversation about the lists as a priority.

"Can he return?" Tea asked. Yugi had called her late last night to explain about the return of the two spirits. Her disheveled appearance reflected this; she was dressed casually in an oversized sweater and jeans, rather than her usual poised outfits.

"Those two returned." Tristan waved his hand across the room, starting at Atem and finishing at Yami Bakura.

"They aren't a deranged figment of Yugi or Ryou's imagination," Joey said.

"He's evil incarnate!" Tristan jabbed a finger in Yami Bakura's direction, still leaning on the wall closest to the door and genkan. Yami Bakura uncrossed his arms, absently rubbing at the bandage that covered his injured knuckles. The prickling, stinging pain rushed over him, drowning out the worst of his sardonic opinions, opinions that weren't worth stating out loud in his minority position.

"What are you doing, Bakura?" Yami Yugi noticed his enemy's strange actions. Paranoia made him shout.

Yami Bakura dropped his hands to his side, subconsciously tucking the bandaged hand into the folds of his clothes. "Nothing," he said.

Tea looked between the two spirits. Her eyes lingered over Yami Bakura's half hidden hand. "Are you hurt?" she asked, noticing a glimpse of the stark white of his bandage.

"I'm fine, dammit!" He scanned the room, eyes roaming frantically. He let himself meet Ryou's eyes, just daring his host to utter a word about the broken mirror.

Ryou chose to not reveal the nature of the spirit of the Ring's injury, hastily jotting down another thought. How should the two spirits be addressed? He let the pen close with a loud click. "We should still try to get in touch with the Ishtars, regardless." He gave the others a few moments to return their attention to the discussion. "Do we have a phone number or email? Or postal address?"

"They lived in a makeshift tomb for their whole lives," Joey said. He formed the shape of a pyramid with exaggerated hand motions.

"Marik owned a motorcycle," Yami Bakura offered.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Joey shot back. He raised his hands into fists, parodying a threatening stance from his sitting position on the floor.

"That's a good point," said Yugi, the air of reason. "After the Pharaoh was sealed away, their jobs as tomb keepers was complete. They probably moved out of the tomb."

"Ishizu did seem familiar with the Egyptian and our governments," Tea said.

Yugi nodded in agreement. "We should get in contact, even if Marik's darkness didn't return. They are Atem's tomb keepers."

"Right. They should be informed." Ryou noted this on a fresh sheet of paper. He flipped back to his original list. "What about financial expenses? Living arrangements?"

"What do you mean?" asked Joey. He absently shuffled his worn Duel Monsters' deck.

Ryou raised his head to gaze at Joey. Of all his friends, Joey should understand about fending for himself and monetary costs. "It will take money to clothe and feed these two. Even my dad would notice if I started spending more."

"You're right," Yugi said. He glanced at Atem apologetically. "Grandpa mentioned he would need extra help if this became a permanent thing."

"Partner, I could apply for work," Atem said immediately.

Yugi shook his head. "Grandpa wants you to attend public school, if you plan to live here. Mom agreed."

"I don't want to be a burden, Yugi."

"Feh," Yami Bakura muttered.

Atem shot him a look that clearly said: of course you wouldn't care. Yami Bakura shuffled his feet, still leaning against the wall. He suppressed the urge to remove his injured hand from his pocket to help remove himself mentally from the conversation.

"I had an idea, though." Ryou tapped the pen against the page where the words "contact Seto Kaiba" were just legible. "Kaiba saw the final duel. I don't think he would ever admit it, but he know about the spirits..." he trailed off as the majority of faces shot him disbelieving looks

"Rich boy, Kaiba?" Joey scoffed. He gestured rudely in the air. "As if he would help us."

"He might be willing." Tea attempted to smooth out her impossibly baggy sweater. "I think he has changed since Duelist Kingdom."

"Right, Tea," Atem said.

"Alright I'm bored." Joey fanned his deck out in front of him. "Who wants to duel?" Ryou ducked his head, glancing down at his lists. He still had another couple pages expanding on every intricate detail of how the two, maybe three, spirits would be able to adapt to life in 1998. Shoving a fistful of hair behind his ear in frustration, Ryou flipped through the pages. He had even broken down a rough schedule for him and his spirit. Not that he really expected Yami Bakura to follow it, nor did he plan to reveal that information to the group.

"Hey, don't be rude, Joey." Tea noticed Ryou's slouch. "Ryou still has more on his list."

Tristan piped in, sitting cross legged next to Joey, "But it's boring."

"You should be grateful someone thought of these things," Tea said. She placed a hand on Ryou's back. "Go on," she urged.

"Oh, um. We got through the important parts, I suppose." He tilted his head in the direction of Joey's still fanned cards. "I haven't watched a duel in a while."

"Okay!" Joey stood up. He thrusted an arm up at Yami Yugi, who cocked his head. "It's time to duel, Atem!"

"Hold it. We need to call Kaiba first," Tea reminded them. Joey glowered, but Atem and he rest of the group stood and followed Tea to the wall phone in the kitchen.

"Tea is right. Besides, I don't have a deck anymore."

Joey's idea for an impromptu match was forgotten by the everyone as Tea was directed to Kaiba Corp's CEO office and started to speak. "Hello, Seto Kaiba? It's Tea Gardner..."

…

The next few days passed in a blur for both spirits. Ryou and Yugi had agreed to the clothes shopping as a group, using Solomon's credit card as a loan. Yami Bakura and Atem received new clothing, mostly attire for late winter, long sleeved tops and long bottoms, an assortment of underpants and socks.

"Do you think this'll be enough?" Ryou asked Yugi, as the four found a place to sit in the fast food joint in the shopping mall. They set the numerous bags underneath a table large enough for the four of them.

"I think so," Yugi replied. "I really hope Kaiba comes through."

Ryou nodded. He pointed at the bags, then at the food line. "I'll wait here while you guys get food."

"Okay. Do you want anything?" Yugi asked.

"Just a green tea." Yugi nodded and Yam Bakura scoffed. Ryou hoped he would keep silent about his lack of breakfast, and now lack of lunch. He didn't want to upset Yugi, but he did not trust his stomach not to rebel. Ever since the spirits had returned, Ryou found it hard to keep even a cup of tea down.

Ryou looked down, underneath the plastic table, at the clothes bags as the two spirits and Yugi stood in line. Atem had filled his new wardrobe with tight fitting clothing, with a few sweaters and warm clothes. But mostly leather. Ryou shook his head as snippets of the former Pharaoh and Yugi arguing over what was considered acceptable clothing choices flashed through his mind. He was glad he wasn't responsible for that bill. His spirit had bought mostly slouch clothing. Baggy jeans, a solid leather belt, numerous winter tees and a couple good quality hooded sweaters.

Apparently his own apparel choices had influenced Yami Bakura. Today, he wore slightly baggy khaki pants and a loose fitting collared shirt. Ryou chalked up Yami Bakura's clothing preferences to years of dressing as himself.

Ryou looked up as a container of fries was shoved in his direction, along with a steaming cup of tea in a plastic take away container. He looked at Yami Bakura. "Yugi thought you might want some," was all Yami Bakura said as he bit into his burger.

Ryou sighed, plucking up a fry and tearing the top half off with his front teeth. "Thanks."

Atem watched Ryou delicately bite his fries in half, discarding the bitten halves back into the container. Ryou finished about half his fries in the same time Atem had eaten his burger and own fries. He let his gaze linger until a blush rose in Ryou's cheeks, then he focused on Yami Bakura, who paid no mind to Ryou as he devoured his meal. Yugi was also watching Ryou with a frown on his face.

"Are you alright Ryou?" Yugi asked, dipping one of his last fries in a small dredge of ketchup.

"Yeah. Just an upset stomach." Ryou grabbed a fry from his makeshift plate of napkins. He bit into it, discreetly placing the other half into the fry container. Atem didn't think Yugi noticed the action, for his partner nodded and chewed his own fry.

"Got that right," Yami Bakura said between bites. "I hear him every morning barfing like some knocked up bitch."

"Yami Bakura!" Atem shouted. Both Ryou and Yami Bakura looked up. Fear showed in Ryou's light brown eyes.

Yugi continued to look at Ryou, as if trying to telepathically seep knowledge out of Ryou, long after Ryou stammered out how he had been feeling ill, but didn't want to bother anyone—especially with the newest predicament.

"Does he affect you that much?" Atem asked Ryou as he followed the other boy into the toilet, after Ryou had excused himself.

"What do you mean?" Ryou ran his fingertips along the cool smooth surface of the mirror above the sinks. Atem gave Ryou a once-over. For the most part, he looked healthy. Tired, but healthy. In fact he looked a little less sickly than he had before Millennium World.

"Yami Bakura. He's not hurting you, is he?"

Ryou quickly shook his head. "No. Mostly he locks himself in the guestroom. I guess it would be his room now, huh?" He gestured towards the stalls with a wave of his hand, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Could I?"

Atem's eyes widened, realization dawned on him. Ryou wanted some privacy. "Of course," he said, making his exit.

Atem shut the door behind him. He found himself looking into Yugi's frowning eyes. From across the food court, he could see Yami Bakura at their table staring at the general direction of the toilets. "Partner?"

Yugi shook his head. "It's nothing." But, before turning away to walk back to the table, Atem caught a glimpse of Yugi's expression, and his face didn't look like "it's nothing."

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> In case anyone picked up on this, Joey called Ryou Bakura, Ryou, while Tristan called him Bakura for reasons… That will be revealed later on (very later on, past chapter 26, later). It wasn't a mistake.
> 
> This may or may not be well known, but Japanese malls are very similar to malls elsewhere in the world, complete with food courts and fast food joints. The only real difference might be how clean everything is or the use of Japanese. On youtube, TheJapanChannelDcom uploaded a tour of a Japanese mall if you're interested (I love this guy). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nIaxAq0W9f0


	4. Meeting Kaiba

Chapter 4: Meeting Kaiba

…

Atem was pleasantly surprised to hear Seto Kaiba's voice on the answering machine after he and Yugi returned home from their clothes shopping. Arms laden with bags, Yugi played back the message and the tinny recorded voice of the CEO requested a meeting for the next day, "A limo will be waiting at ten o'clock."

Yugi said with a grin, "This is fantastic!" Atem nodded, and the two carried the many bags up to the former guestroom that had been converted, with Grandpa's and Mrs. Mouto's help, to a bedroom. Grandpa had even dug out last year's dueling posters for Atem to hang on his walls. The once guestroom looked very much like a bedroom, especially with the bags of clothes the two boys simply left on the floor, laundry abandoned for calling the group to relay Kaiba's meeting, then video games.

…

"That's good. Well let's hope for the best tomorrow?" Ryou concluded. Yugi had been chattering excitedly about Kaiba's requested meeting, but Ryou wasn't too sure. Kaiba had come around to sort of admit in believing the Millennium items ad magical objects and their past lives, but he worried the CEO would not be willing to dispense money, a lot of money, for the ancient spirits that had not treated him very kindly, especially not the spirit of the Millennium Ring.

"Who was that?" Yami Bakura slunk into the kitchen, past Ryou, during the middle of his phone conversation. Ryou gasped, placing a hand to his chest.

"Voice, you startled me." He set the phone back on the stand. "It was Yugi. Kaiba requested we meet him tomorrow."

Yami Bakura scowled. He fisted his right hand in the pocket of his jeans. He had been wearing this particular pair of jeans for the past few days, since he had returned to the world. He recognized them as a former favorite pair of jeans of Ryou's, but he doubted Ryou could fit into them. The jeans fit perfectly on his frame; he looked similar to Ryou had before Millennium World: pale, sickly, and thin. "Whatever," he said to cover the brief flash of emotion he felt.

"Please," Ryou coaxed. "It'll only be an hour or so. We really need the money, yeah?"

Yami Bakura glanced at Ryou. Ryou had gained some weight, enough to look healthy, though a touch anemic. His clothing still hung on his frame, as if Ryou was hiding his body. "I'm sure we won't have to take into account your food budget," he said with a nasty smirk on his face. "Though," he pretended to ponder thoughtfully, "Your starvation diet isn't very effective." Yami Bakura's ugly smirk widened as he seemed to critique Ryou's silhouette—in all fairness, the boy hadn't gained all that much since Yami

Bakura had seen him last year, but years of habitual degrading made the words spring to his lips.

As Ryou's eyebrows shot into his white bangs, and the edges of his mouth crinkled into frown lines, Yami Bakura stepped forward, advancing like the starved predator. Ryou, prey as always, ducked his head, and turned on one heel, running off to his room. To cry, a horrible voice cackled somewhere behind Yami Bakura's ears. He clenched his hand in his jeans pocket tightly, feeling the mirror shard break the skin on his palm. He wondered why Ryou's upset had any effect on him; he never cared about Ryou's state of mind before.

Yami Bakura retreated to his own room, glass shard in hand. He closed the door, locking it behind him. He sank to the floor, eyes burning behind half closed lids, trying to suppress the strange feeling in his gut, and the tightness in his chest, all as if a caterpillar nestled and burrowed in his abdomen, threatening to spill over. Instead, he rolled back his shirt sleeves, examining the couple day old crescent finger marks on his left arm and the miniscule scrapes on his knuckles. He exhaled as he tapped the healing wounds with his fingers. A jolt of pain on his knuckles, then a slight twitch from the faded cuts on his arm stopped his thoughts cold.

He felt a small twinge in his right hand where the mirror shard nicked his skin. Yami Bakura brought the shard up to eye level. He watched with interest as the light cast miniscule rainbows on the rough surface, creating beauty in the jagged edge. He placed the shard against his arm, remembering the relief that digging his nails into his arm had given him, remembering the satisfaction he felt as the bathroom mirror shattered after connecting with his fist, remembering the blood welling up, staining his fingernails, his knuckles, his newly developed conscience.

He cut into his arm, before realizing what he planned on doing. The shard scraped against his skin, quickly, angrily. The pain was sharp and focused. Blood droplets collected on his skin; red bled into pale white. He cut again, intently focused on dragging the shard through the tender skin of his forearm, pressing down against the glass shard enough to leave indents and nicks on the tips of his fingers. He pursed his lips together, preventing the pain from overwhelming him, letting it blossom slowly on each nerve as he pulled the glass shard, slowly.

He exhaled out the pain as the incision filled a tiny line of bright red along his arm. As he watched the blood gather into small pools around the cuts, and slowly dribble down his arm, drying into crusty tendrils not too far from the wounds, Yami Bakura forgot about everything, his world narrowing down into a blur of pain and sticky red, calming his racing heart, forcing his world view to a standstill as the sensations overflowed his senses.

…

Kaiba had requested only the two spirits, Yugi, and Ryou attend the meeting, so when a limo pulled up in front of Kame Game Shop, only those four climbed in. Atem glanced at Ryou in his baggy sweater, at Yami Bakura in a dark long sleeved tee shirt, then at Yugi who had worn a lighter shirt in celebration of the beginnings of spring. Atem dressed similarly to Yugi. He figured it would do to make a good impression with the one who would be, essentially, giving him money.

"Sleep well?" Atem asked in an effort to break the nervous silence. Yami Bakura grunted, rubbing his right arm. His facial features were smooth and calm. Atem doubted he had ever seen Yami Bakura with such a relaxed expression. Hell, with any expression besides hatred and homicidal. Ryou shrugged. His face looked pinched and drawn. He had obvious bags under his eyes. Only Yugi looked well rested. Though he was biting on his pinky nail.

Atem tried a different tactic. He remembered Ryou's exhaustive list of concerns. "How do you suppose this will work?" He glanced at Ryou, who instantly became more alert. Cleverness lit up his sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes.

Ryou tapped the tips of his fingers together and leaned forward, across the gap between his and Yami Bakura's seat and Atem's and Yugi's. "Kaiba is the only self sufficient teenage billionaire we know. Plus he is aware of the spirits, whether he will admit it aloud. We have to hope Kaiba feels even an iota of compassion."

"We're at his mercy," Atem finished. His chest clenched. This could be very very bad.

"We're fucked," Bakura said, in an eerily calm voice that matched his vacant expression. He rubbed again at a spot on his covered forearm.

"We need to be hopeful, guys. I'm sure Kaiba will be reasonable." Yugi said as they approached Kaiba Corp headquarters.

…

"Again with this magic bullshit?" Kaiba slammed a hand down on his desk, disturbing a mountain of paperwork in the process. The papers fell to the floor in a swoosh. Out of reflex, Yugi and Ryou knelt down to pick to the fallen papers. "Don't touch those! That's confidential." Ryou jerked back as he jumped back into a standing position. He swayed slightly before Kaiba's strong hand grasped the hood of his sweater.

"Thanks," Ryou murmured, but Kaiba ignored him. He crossed the small distance to Yami Yugi and Yam Bakura.

"You look familiar," he said after a minute. Yami Bakura kept his head down, right hand reaching into his left sleeve to scratch at the cuts on his arm. That damn conscience of his reminded him to be silent for Ryou's sake.

"Yes Kaiba," Atem said through gritted teeth. Kaiba had stated that three or four times in the past half hour, and Atem's patience was wearing thin. Kaiba stalked back to his computer, a laptop had replaced his old desktop, stepping over the strewn papers with ease. He punched a button on the intercom as his other hand typed something into the computer.

"Send Mokuba up." he spoke into the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Kaiba."

Kaiba leaned his weight on the desk, both palms planted into the wood as he alternated between comparing whatever was on the computer screen and Yugi, Ryou, Yami Bakura, and Atem. Mokuba entered the room shortly after, closing the door behind him, as recognition transformed Kaiba's face, his eyes widening and his lips parting in a silent gasp.

"Yugi!" the younger Kaiba brother exclaimed.

"Come here, Mokuba," Kaiba commanded, and Mokuba immediately walked over to his brother's side. He also stepped over the papers, barely noticing them. "Look." He pointed at the screen.

"Battle City finals?" Mokuba questioned.

"Right." Kaiba scrutinized the spirits. "You won," he jabbed a finger in Atem's direction. "And you snuck in, scoring the eighth spot in my tournament." He pointed at Yami Bakura, who froze, still scratching at the wound under his sleeve.

Yami Bakura curled his lips into a sneer. "So?"

Luckily, Kaiba was too occupied processing this revelation to notice the snide tone. "And you're Yugi Mouto and Ryou Bakura: my classmates." Yugi and Ryou nodded. "How, how did this happen?" Kaiba asked weakly, sitting down in his desk chair.

"It's the magic, Seto," Mokuba said before Atem could launch on a speech about the Millennium items, Ancient Egypt, and quirky coincidences. Mokuba addressed the group, looking very much like a younger version of his brother. "You need starting money?" He inquired, sounding years older than a middle school kid.

"Yes. They appeared for no reason a few days ago," Yugi sad. "Grandpa wants Atem to get through a year of school, so he can graduate."

Mokuba grabbed the laptop from Kaiba's slacked hands. "Starting money, false IDs, and records, huh?" He smirked. "I think I can do that."

Mokuba's easy acceptance seemed to snap Kaiba out of his daze. "You can't just give away false information, Mokuba! Especially to these people," he flipped a hand in Yugi's general direction.

Suddenly Mokuba looked more his age as a sullen look graced his features. "But Grandpa is right, Seto." Kaiba scowled at the familial word used for Mr. Mouto. "Education is important. And one year won't be too hard to live under aliases. And it doesn't cost that much."

"Do you want to do the hand shaking with those types of businessmen, Mokuba?" Kaiba asked. Mokuba shook his head and continued to fix his brother with a pleading stare. "Fine," he snapped, then addressed the group. "I take it you have aliases created for your false birth certificates?" he spoke in a tone that implied they had better have prepared false identities. A silence filled the room, and Kaiba's glare deepened.

Ryou spoke quietly, "I had an idea."

Kaiba scrawled out Ryou's idea onto a plain white piece of printer paper. He glanced at Ryou's notes every so often to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "So, Yami Mouto is Yugi's older brother. He stayed with the deceased Mr. Mouto while he was away for business. Homeschooled, but he had to return for his final year, after their father's death. He scored a 500 on the entrance exam." Kaiba smirked as he announced Atem's grade to be one of the lowest accepted entrance exam scores.

"Why so low?" Yugi asked Ryou, also aware of the very low score.

Ryou shifted. "I did that for both of them. In case they're confused by the classes. It won't seem too out of place."

Yugi nodded. Even Atem, who had been seething at Kaiba's satisfied expression, was impressed by Ryou's preparedness.

"And Yami Bakura, we have a couple options for." Kaiba tapped his pen against Ryou's list. "Mr. Solomon Mouto and Mrs. Mouto are willing to claim Atem as their own, but your father is still living, and is unaware of the spirits." Kaiba spoke to Ryou, reading Ryou's thoughts to the group as a collective, changing the pronouns for clarity. He sneered at the word spirit. "A distant family member of the Bakuras', but that could have backlash if Mr. Bakura found out..."

Suddenly Kaiba laughed out loud as he read silently ahead. "A cousin of the Moutos'!" He smirked, and continued to read Ryou's indexed writing. "This would require cosmetic changes—perhaps dying hair black and cutting it short. Address is at the Mouto's."

Kaiba read ahead again, this time answering Ryou's questions without bothering to relay the questions to the group. "No, the school would not check on Yami Bakura's listed home address unless they had a reason. And there would be sufficient warning. You guys walk part way to school every day. Why would that be an issue? How am I to know if he would be willing to cut and dye his hair?"

Kaiba fell silent, waiting for Yami Bakura's response. "Well?" Atem finally asked.

Yami Bakura replied, "Whatever. I don't care." He still wore that queer expression. Really, Yami Bakura mused, he didn't care what his body looked like. At the moment, all he cared about was the sizzling pain along the cut he continued to scratch under his shirt sleeve.

"I'll have it done within the next two days, so you can start school on time." Kaiba said. He placed the plain white paper on top of stack of papers closest to his laptop.

Yugi smiled. "Thank you Kaiba. We really do appreciate this."

"Yes Kaiba, I am grateful to you," Atem added.

Kaiba scoffed. "You should thank your friend for being so prepared." He flicked his eyes in Ryou's direction.

Ryou blushed. "That's okay. It was nothing, really."

Kaiba looked like he was about to say something about Ryou's protests, but Mokuba broke in. "You better thank me too. He wouldn't've helped if it weren't for me!" Mokuba thrust his thumb into his chest.

Kaiba shoved his knuckles into Mokuba's hair. "Lucky I love you, little brother." He smiled softly down at Mokuba.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I mentioned high school entrance exam scores. I'm not quite sure how this situation would work: a home schooled kid being placed in a school. Nor, am I aware of the scoring rubric, so I apologize if the score of 500 is completely off. I tried researching it, but I couldn't find anything. All I know about entrance exams is that they are required at high school and college levels, and students find out their admissions via a communal message board, with each student receiving a number and if that number is posted, they were accepted. Also, I only know this through years of being a manga and anime fan, so if anyone has more knowledge on entrance exams, feel free to elaborate. ^_^
> 
> Laptops existed in 1998. My cousin, up until 2007, had a laptop from 2001 with one of the first versions on Windows XP and that thing was a rock: bulky and durable even through her abuse, and just amazing. I just googled laptops from 1998. Hahaha. Check that out!
> 
> Name confusion ends at the beginning of next chapter. The spirits will be called Yami and Bakura, because I'm an old unteachable dog.


	5. The Week Before School

Chapter 5: The Week Before School

…

In the next few days as Kaiba's businessmen prepared the necessary information for Atem and Yami Bakura to integrate with society, Yugi and Ryou set out to pick up a couple sets of uniforms and textbooks for the two. At Ryou's suggestion, the group of four detoured to the library after the school store to add some books on basic (and, Ryou reasoned, so common place, he or Yugi might forget to mention) information about society. Ryou knew Yami Bakura, at least, could speak and write fluent Japanese from his time in the Millennium Ring. This proved true with Atem also, because, even though he wasn't connected with Yugi for more than a year, he had picked up Japanese from the first time the Puzzle pieces heard Solomon Mouto's and Professor Hawkins' voices.

After hearing about Yugi's partner nearly blowing up the kitchen in his process of making toast, Ryou and Yugi, amidst peals of laughter, decided an introductory crash course would be essential. "We should probably refer to you guys by your aliases, so you don't forget at school," Yugi offered on their trip back from the library. Ryou secretly cheered that Yugi had brought up that fact. He did not want to deal with Yami Bakura's resentment at being referred to as a Mouto. He had to admit, though, the spirit had been almost passive. He did not lash out on Ryou or, not including the shattered mirror, the apartment this time around.

"Yami Mouto and Bakura Mouto," Ryou stated. Voice, no Ryou corrected himself, Bakura shuffled his feet, looking displeased, but not violent. Atem, er, Yami, beamed at his own name—not that it had changed drastically in any unpleasant way.

"Hello, my name is Ryou Bakura. And you are?" Ryou offered a hand to the spirit—no Bakura, and Bakura shook it.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Bakura Mouto," he said gruffly. Ryou grinned. His tone was informal, almost impolite, but he chalked that up to Bakura's personality. After spending seven years with Ryou, Bakura could be polite and did have a grasp on modern society. He had seen Bakura imitate him to his friends numerous times from his soul room in Battle City, then later in Millennium World.

Yugi held out his own hand to Yami. "Yugi Mouto. It is a pleasure to meet you." Yami took his hand; bringing Yugi's proffered hand to his lips, then kissed the back of his hand. Yugi recoiled.

Yami spoke in a deep voice, not aware of his transgressions, "My name is Yami Mouto, charmed." He blinked rapidly at Yugi.

"What-what are you doing?" Yugi spluttered. Ryou couldn't help it and started to laugh at poor Yami's confused expression. Even Bakura smirked at the Pharaoh's distress.

"That's how it was done in that movie!" Yami justified, crossing his hands haughtily.

"What movie?" Ryou gasped out between chuckles.

Realization dawned on Yugi. "It must have been that foreign romance Tea made him watch last night."

"Why?"

Yugi just shook his head and collected himself, before explaining how most people greeted others, especially outside of clichéd 1930s romances. Yes, Yugi decided, the two did need a crash course introduction to modern Japan.

…

A week later, on the day before the new school year, Yugi's group of friends met one last time for the informal instruction-for-modern-Japan classes. Bakura trudged slightly behind Ryou, actively making a conscious effort to stay behind the laggard boy, as Ryou plodded along as if the short walk exhausted him.

Ryou waved to the small group as they approached, and Bakura quirked an eyebrow as he saw a bead a sweat trickle down Ryou's face even as Bakura stared sullenly downwards, eyes glaring pathways along the concrete sidewalk. Bakura twirled a lock of his momentarily still white and medium length hair as their present location reminded him of why exactly his arm stung underneath one of his new long sleeved tee shirts. He yanked at his hair, unintentionally ripping out a few strands. He hastily shoved them in his jeans pocket and crossed his arms, bracing himself.

"What's on the schedule today?" Yami asked, making Bakura bristle against the obnoxious grating of the former Pharaoh's pleasing teacher voice. He repositioned his arms; uncrossing and recrossing them, letting the newest cuts rub against the fabric of his shirt.

As they were presently huddled underneath an awning of the local hair stylist, Bakura assumed it was perfectly easy to deduce what their plans for the first part of today were. He bit back a sigh that threatened to make his opinion on their location apparent. "Well," he said in a gruff voice which hid the lump in his throat, "we're all here."

Bakura stomped through the entrance, ignoring the receptionist's greetings and cheery "Good morning!" They all better damn well be here; he didn't want nor need an audience to witness this. Yugi, Ryou, and Yami were more than enough—though why Yami's or Yugi's presences were required, Bakura did not know. He slouched into a fake leather chair, arms still crossed against the rock forming in his gut at the imminent altercation of his hair. He reminded himself with a firm tightening of his arms that he did not have any attachment to his white hair.

Forty-five minutes later—the benefits and perks of being one of the first appointments—Bakura walked out the same door he had marched into, now sporting freshly dyed shoulder-length black hair. He bowed his head, relaxing slightly as his hair still fell forward, covering the majority of his face, and certainly covering the sullenness in his eyes. He had only spoken once during it, to verbalize his confirmation with the new hair style, a habit he formed during the crash course set up by Ryou and Yugi.

His insides twisted into lead; he still had to endure that too. He was almost grateful at the promise of school the following day. These classes on proper etiquette for him and Yami bordered on pandering and condescending, and forced him to swallow back bile as Ryou and Yugi instructed them on anything and everything from appliances to electronics, threatening to snap Bakura's thinly masked self control. Nothing a couple slices with his glass shard couldn't ease. He had taken to carrying the glass shard in his pants pocket, but it wasn't always so easy to slip off somewhere—especially on days like today, where they convened in Yugi's house.

Yugi set up extra chairs, stolen from the kitchen table, in front of a desktop computer in the corner of the living room, gesturing for the four to have a seat. Bakura, positioning his chair a few spaces behind the rest, sat. Yugi booted up the computer while addressing the group, especially Bakura and Yami. "I think you both know this is a computer. We don't use them that often for school, but they are available."

Ryou spoke to the floor, chiming in, "They're becoming more important though. Universities expect you to know something about them. Typing, word processors, the world wide web, for example." He listed the examples while ticking them of his fingers, still staring at the floor, rather than meet Bakura's or Yami's eyes—though Bakura stared at his own lap, inching his hand up the sleeve of his shirt.

Bakura knew a bit about computers, mostly because Ryou had a fairly top of the line model. He had sent Ryou's father an email once, when he borrowed Ryou's body for a particularly long time, only to keep the archeologist's suspicions at bay so he would stay in Egypt. He let Yugi's and Ryou's split lecture wash over him. As the two went through very basic functions of the computer and the internet, he lost himself in scratching at the most recent cut on his arm underneath his sleeve.

He found himself blinking back to reality, quickly removing his hand from his shirt sleeve, to Yugi's wide eyes gazing into his a few millimeters from his. He resisted to the urge to jump back, probably knocking over his chair in the process or throttling the little idiot, choosing just to snarl out a question-like verbiage. "Are you alright?" Yugi asked.

"Fine," Bakura said shortly. He waved a hand in the general direction of the computer, and, much to his relief, everyone returned their gazes to the desktop computer (which beeped in inconsistent lengths as it connected to the internet), "Moving on?"

Yugi pointed at the small symbol on the lower right of the computer that meant the computer was connected to the internet. "Now, we can't stay on too long or Grandpa will be annoyed, but…" Bakura continued to zone out the majority of Yugi's lecture as Yugi continued to speak, just like the majority of 'lessons'. Bakura choked down the bitterness pooling in the back of his throat as Yugi pointed out things he knew from inhabiting the Millennium Ring that used to be present on Ryou's neck at all times.

…

Bakura sat on his bed in what counted as his room, he supposed. He listened to the toilet next to Ryou's room flush, once, then again. He rolled up his left shirt sleeve, without thinking about why he was rolling up his sleeve. He gazed down at the cuts on his arm, all seven of them. Everything from Ryou's constant illness, to the patronizing grooming classes, to shopping for school clothes made him want to reach for something sharp. In fact, at the school store, behind the rows of text books and uniforms, Bakura had slipped off to peruse the shelves littered with overpriced personal care items, cold medications to lead pencils to shampoo and cream rinse that could be purchased for a better price at the convenience store a few blocks away.

Alone in the personal care aisle no one ever looked at; Bakura stashed a disposable razor in his jeans pocket, smirking as his fingers grazed the glass shard in the process. Now, days later, he unearthed the razor from his dresser, whilst the glass shard nipped slightly at his skin through his pants.

Bakura ripped off the plastic safety piece. The three blades glittered as they caught on the light from the lamp. With his thumb and forefinger, Bakura detached the head from the razor. He studied the razor head, wondering how he would remove the blades from the plastic, when a knock on the door tore his attention away from the razor.

Ryou entered before Bakura could hide the razor and pull down his sleeve. He cursed, pulling at the sleeve roughly. He felt one of the razor blades, still nestled in the plastic covering, cut into his thumb. He watched, filled with horror and grim satisfaction as the accidental cut bled more than any of his self inflicted cuts had. Blood welled up on the side of his thumb, and ran down his hands in rivulets. His heart pounded in tune to the bleeding wound, and the blood matched the beat of his pulse.

"Bakura?" Ryou, Bakura noticed was very pale. His eyes watered and bright red dots stood out in contrast to the skin around his eyes. He had to stop and place a balancing hand on the nightstand by Bakura's bed. Bakura used this opportunity to tuck his bleeding thumb into the black shirt sleeve. At least he had worn his only black shirt today.

"What's wrong with you," Bakura growled, annoyed at himself for being annoyed at Ryou over being ill. Whatever was going on with his host, Bakura did not like it, and the worry turned outward into verbal lashings to Ryou.

Ryou smiled. "I'm fine."

"The hell you're not. Even Kaiba noticed something was off." At that statement, Ryou's dazed look was replaced with a quiet desperation.

"What do you mean?" Ryou blinked away the black spots that always danced in the corner of his vision, especially lately. He wanted to appear alert, able to have this conversation. After the meeting with Kaiba, when the CEO had prevented Ryou from passing out (not that Ryou had mentioned this to Bakura), Bakura seemed almost concerned.

"Nothing. What did you want?" Bakura's earlier anger at being walked in on in a compromising situation bubbled over. "Didn't I tell you not to enter without knocking? Huh brat?"

Ryou visibly shook, this time from fear. "Um. Kaiba called. I'm sorry I bothered you, s-"

Before Ryou could finish with the mantra Bakura made him say last time around, Bakura cut him off. The bleeding, stinging cut on his thumb prevented him from feeling anything about this interaction. "Never mind that. What did Kaiba have to say?"

"He said the paperwork was ready to go. And he wants us to pick it up later today." That made sense. School resumed for Yugi and Ryou tomorrow, and Yugi's parents would finish enrolling Bakura and Yami after they received the false birth certificates and paperwork.

"Okay," Bakura said as a dismissal. Ryou left, Bakura figured, to finish getting dressed. Bakura did not understand why Ryou had to take his shirt off to use the toilet, but it didn't seem important enough to dwell on. He entered the toilet near the kitchen to wash the drying blood off his thumb, and to throw on one of his thicker sweaters to staunch any latent blood flow.

As he returned to his room, Bakura noticed the razor head he had tossed on his nightstand. He turned the lock shut on the door, and he leaned against the door frame. He twisted the razor head in his hands. He was not particularly upset or angry, especially after accidentally cutting his thumb; he couldn't justify cutting, but he felt, low, he supposed. Unproductive, maybe. He didn't really feel like hurting himself, but he thought removing the blades, now, rather than when he was desperate later, was a smart plan.

Feeling validated with his idea, Bakura, in perfect control, ripped and gnashed at the plastic covering with his teeth until three, slightly dented razor blades came loose. The blades fell to the floor by his lap, and Bakura reached over to grab one. Still not needing to hurt himself, Bakura stared at the paper thin metal blade. He didn't trust this little thing to cut very well. Then again, one side was sharp, and glinted in the false light in his room. He reasoned, he should try a practice cut, so as to not cause himself any lasting damage.

He pressed the blade into the smooth skin right above his left knee. It stung as he felt the skin part under the razor side. He hadn't dragged the blade, so this intricate cutting into his skin almost did not count. Bakura watched as beads of blood trickled to the surface of his skin. He didn't think of the meeting with Kaiba last week or the start of his first and final year at a public school tomorrow. Bakura just watched the small tracks of blood snake down, curling down his exposed upper thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> In the manga, Ryou Bakura never called Yami Bakura anything but "koe", which translates to voice (from the scanlations online since my English YGO mangas are buried in my closet).
> 
> The only knowledge I have of Japanese school stores is from a couple mangas. I based it on my university/college school stores. I'm probably totally off, but I hope you can ignore any glaring errors for the sake of the plot.
> 
> Anyone else old enough to remember dial up? Ye gods. Shudders. If you aren't old enough to remember the ancient, archaic thing that was dial up, it ran through your phone line (you know landlines?), so you couldn't use the telephone (before cell phones?). Hahaha. Which is why Solomon would get angry,


	6. First Day

Chapter 6: First Day

…

The next morning found Bakura gazing at himself in the cracked mirror in the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the shattered, spider web design of the mirror. Bakura ran a hand through his newly dyed black hair, marveling at the feel of his hair ending right at the tip of the shoulders. "That horrid gym teacher won't bother you about the length," Ryou had said with a wince. Bakura recalled that incident; he felt a smirk tugging at his lips at the thought of how he could torture the teacher. Then he remembered the Pharaoh would also be starting today with him, and the smirk vanished. Without his shadow magic, he wouldn't have any advantage over the gym teacher. Bakura scratched at his arm underneath his sleeve.

He really needed to find a place for the razor. Thoughts shifting, he glanced at the top dresser drawer, the current location of the busted razor and two blades, and contemplated. He threw on the familiar school uniform, not taking the time to keep the skirt crease free, like Ryou did. Idiot.

A knock on his door. Bakura whirled around, pointedly looking in any direction but the dresser. Ryou opened the door and stepped in the room. He made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound Bakura equated to a cross between a gag and a sneer. "You're uniform..." he trailed off.

Bakura ignored him, brushing past Ryou to the kitchen. A plate was set up on the table: a very protein focused breakfast spread, complete with omelet, fish strips, and leftover stir fry chicken take out. "You're not eating?" he asked as he sat down in front of the plate, noticing the lack of a second table setting.

"I already ate." Bakura rewarded Ryou with a grunt and ate the meal alone.

Ryou stared at the wall. As Bakura ate, Ryou seemed to recite a rehearsed list of his, still keeping his eyes level to the wall. "We should all be in the same class. Yugi, Yami, me ,you, Joey, Tea, Tristan. I'm not sure how he managed that, but it will be easier to help with your assignments." Ryou smoothed out a wrinkle Bakura swore didn't exist, switching topics slightly. His voice changed to a higher—forced—pitch. "Oh! We have math, language and culture, um, English. And there's a new elective class being offered. Kaiba signed all us up for it..."

Bakura mindlessly chewed a piece of omelet and a bite of fish together. He wondered how much the Pharaoh would act up, or at least annoy him. His arm itched underneath his uniform shirt and jacket. He cursed himself for being so weak, so pathetic. He had been the thief king; he most certainly could stand up to him; hell, he held his own just fine in Millennium World. Bakura wondered if he should risk bringing a razor blade with him. He hadn't actually used one, aside from pressing the blade into his skin until it bled. That didn't count.

Ryou stopped chattering; Bakura noticed the silence. He murmured a response that hopefully fit what Ryou was blathering about. "...fascinating, really. But I hope it won't be too difficult for you and Yami. Ryou finished the sentence with an upwards draw, like an over excited puppy. He sneered around a mouthful of tomato and egg, but Ryou didn't notice.

…

School, Bakura found was as it had been when he borrowed Ryou's body: the classes dull and trivial, interspersed with monotonous breaks, all cycling in endless tedium, day on day. The elective class Ryou had been chirping on about over breakfast turned out to be psychology, which Bakura didn't mind as it was the second to last class before lunch. Over the past seven years, in and out of schools acting as Ryou Bakura, Bakura found he actually gleaned some of the taught information and had few problems keeping up in math and languages courses. It greatly amused him to watch the Pharaoh's expression shift from slightly pinched worry to outright panic, wide eyed deer-in-the headlights, over the course of a single class period.

After morning classes, Bakura lagged behind Yugi and his group of friends, simply following Ryou out of habit as they made their way to the courtyard for lunch.

Bakura nearly jumped out of skin when a plastic bento was thrust into his hands. Ryou just smiled at him, also holding a bento. "Here, I made you a lunch." Bakura raised his eyebrows in response, settling on the grass a few feet away from the rest of the group. He dug into the contents of his lunch, ignoring the others' conversation and general pleasantries. He ate without thought, sinply eating the traditional Japanese style food Ryou had prepared, until the silence made him look up.

He glanced, first, at the center of the lack of noise—Yugi and company, then to where they were looking, identical faces of confusion mingled with horror. Bakura smirked, and then took in the cause of disturbance at the school gate.

Marik, tanned skin a few shades paler than normal and a disheveled appearance, messy bed head hair and ghastly pallor, climbed up the gate that remained locked during school hours. Bakura chuckled as Yugi and Ryou ran over to the gathering conglomerate of teachers who loudly threatened to call the police on Marik.

"It's not funny, Bakura," Tea admonished, to which Bakura shrugged, unconcerned about the girl's opinion. "He could get into a lot of trouble." Bakura tossed Tea a glare, mostly to shut her up than in retaliation to her speech.

"Leave her alone," Tristan said to Bakura's glare. Bakura deepened his glare, before turning away from the insignificant lackeys, choosing to watch Marik make a fool of himself. Bakura noted his former host and Yugi try to pacify the teachers. Both boys used exaggerating hand gestures and pulled innocent expressions as they talked the teachers down from calling reinforcements.

He could make out a few words, mostly about Marik being distant family and there was an emergency and poor communication. Bakura smirked at Marik stuck halfway up the school gate as the negotiations took place, looking awkwardly out of place.

When the congregation of teachers and onlookers dispersed, Joey, Tristan, and Tea stood to join Yugi, Ryou, and Marik. Bakura followed.

…

"When did you call Marik, Ryou?" asked Yugi as they walked in a group from the school, effectively cutting their school day in half.

"Last night." Ryou tapped a finger against his lips. "I didn't think you could get here so quickly,' he said, glancing over at Marik as he spoke.

Marik grinned. "It was almost noon when you called over there," he shrugged. "And Ishizu has connections with the government, so…"

They walked a few paces before Marik spoke again, his voice tinged with a mix of dark emotion, "I wanted to make sure my spirit wasn't wandering Japan without me."

Ryou's eyes softened. "I don't think that will happen," he said in a way Bakura had a feeling he had elaborated this point to death, "the darkness in you was inherently created by you, not the Millennium items, while our spirits were attached to their items."

Marik scratched at his head, looking defeated with slumped eye facing the ground. Tea patted the Egyptian on the back tentatively. "Logically, I get that, but…"

"You're worried. It's understandable," Yugi finished and added his own words of encouragement.

Yami nodded. "It's commendable, you're actions after Battle City. You have changed for the better." The fact that you came—"

Before Yami could finish (his manipulative hero speech in Bakura's opinion), Joey and Tristan each lugged an arm around Marik in a necessary-but-still-masculine one arm hug. "Don't worry," Joey proclaimed.

"Yeah, it's cool. We know you've changed," Tristan said. Both boys immediately released Marik and the trio looked significantly more relaxed in their traditional walking gaits.

Bakura stared ahead, ambivalent. He acknowledged the conversation around him, but chose not to participate, going as far to deftly look away when Marik sent him pointed looks. In that passive way that his constantly stinging arm allowed him, he shoved aside the anger and bitterness regarding Battle City and Marik's subsequent shifting loyalties. He allowed himself to be lead to whatever destination the group chose.

…

After a few hours at the Mouto residence, thoroughly regretting his decision to tag along, Bakura returned to the apartment with Ryou, who chirped annoyingly, in the lead, about what the group had tentatively decided to do about Marik. Marik, after years of tomb keeping, then five years of scattered life as a gang-like boss, desired to integrate with society. Ryou's chatter unsettled Bakura, burrowing deep under his skin, an irksome thing humming in his veins.

Bakura slipped off his shoes before stepping up into the kitchen, for once, too tired to deal with the lecture Ryou would give him, too tired to hide behind his anger. Afraid his eyes betrayed his odd mood, Bakura slunk past Ryou, hair matted over his eyes, head down, to his room, where he hid behind the closed door.

Something foreign, something he could not place, rose in his gut, coiling upwards into his chest. This thing, this feeling, split him apart from inside-out. He let his muscles relax, slumping to the bed. He reached into his uniform pants pocket for the glass shard, fingers, out of habit, held the shard by thumb and forefinger, in a position that best suited a slicing motion. Instantly the sensation in his chest subsided as he stared up at the shard.

He set the shard on the covers of the bed, not really needing to use the object, but comforted by the sight. He tugged off his uniform, letting the three garments fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. He paused in his quest to put on a fresh shirt and pants, reveling in the cuts and scars on his arm. Already, only a few weeks in, and his non dominant arm sported a multitude of little white scars and more recent scratch-like cuts.

Bakura stroked the cuts and scars with a fingertip, the skin mostly smooth. The cuts formed small ridges and peaks that marred his arm, which would eventually heal and flatten to white track marks criss-crossing in a pale design. Staring, memorized at the damage on his arm, Bakura failed to notice the knock on his door, until the knob turned with a metallic click, and Ryou entered, uttering a soft, "Bakura?"

The reaction was instantaneous: Bakura threw a long sleeved top over his head, immediately sliding his arms into the sleeves, whilst facing away from Ryou, preventing the other boy from seeing the most recent cut on his knee. He screamed, barely masking the tremor in his voice, "The fuck!?"

He tugged his legs through a new set of pants, as Ryou stammered out an apology and swiveled around to face out into the hallway, until Bakura finally said, "What do you want?"

When Ryou turned to face Bakura, the former tomb robber had a scowl planted on his face, arms crossed and leaned against the far wall. "I just got off the phone with Yugi." His smile caused the coiling in Bakura's gut to reawaken and unfurl. "He got a hold of Kaiba…"

As Ryou spoke, his relief and good cheer bouncing against the growing agitation in Bakura's stomach, Bakura nodded, muttering neutral responses, until, satisfied at last, Ryou left him to his own devices. His eyes burned and his chest felt tight like an over-extended rubber band. He grabbed the glass shard before his chest collapsed under this strange pressure, and the emotions bubbled out at abandon.

He cut into the flesh of his arm, the biting sting overriding Ryou's words that taunted him.

"Kaiba agreed to help Marik out too, since he only needs real identification papers," Ryou said.

Slice.

"He'll live with Yugi and Yami, as a distant relative. So I guess he's your relative too." Ryou chuckled as Bakura suppressed a strangled sound, akin to a small animal dying.

Slice. Furrowed brows masked the burning at the edges of his eyes. The pain cut through his chest, and the pressure lessened.

"He should be able to start school in a couple days. Oh!" Ryou interrupted himself as he remembered another important tidbit. Bakura shrugged, letting Ryou's words flow past him, as he told himself it didn't affect him. "We might have to educate him too." Bakura literally bit into his tongue. Apparently former mob bosses didn't learn much about modern culture during hostile takeover missions. Bakura wondered why; he expressed that sarcastic sentiment to Ryou, who actually laughed softly at the jab.

Bakura's fingers hovered over his exposed forearm, the glass shard shook slightly at the strain put on it. Bakura paused, then set the shard down, satisfied with the two cuts. Blood trickled out in small amounts, and the tightness in his stomach dissipated. He inhaled, then exhaled. Flopping against his bed, Bakura breathed deeply, mind beautifully clear.

…

Ryou closed Bakura's door behind him and quietly made his way to the living room. He drew himself up into a ball, knees tucked to his chest and arms curled around his knees, in the comfortable armchair his father chose to sit in when he spent time in the apartment. He racked his brain, searching for the motive behind why he chose to share information, to communicate with Bakura.

The information was purely neutral; it would affect him as Marik would become part of their everyday lives: however, Bakura's expression, the crossing of his arms, the languid way he leaned against the wall, the never changing sneer, conveyed his lack of interest rather clearly. Ryou picked at his fingernails, ignoring the small grumble in his belly, as he curled up tighter.

He supposed he was lonely. He desired companionship, any companionship, so Bakura's dour, sarcastic presence in his life would make do. Still picking at his fingers, he stole a glance at his phone in the dining area just off the kitchen. He could call Joey or Yugi: he knew that logically. Another embarrassing growl from his stomach stopped his thoughts, and Ryou stood.

He shut the depressing thoughts out of his mind as he set out to prepare dinner for Bakura. At least the task would quiet his mind for a short while. As he thumbed through one of the few cookbooks he owned, Ryou fixed himself a cup of tea. The kettle heating in the background, Ryou prepped vegetables for the meal, the knife chopping against the cutting board drowned out any thoughts.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Ryou's POV is so hard to write! At least it is for now. ^_^
> 
> I'm not sure how much I mentioned about Japanese schools before, but… I think you could read this chapter and later chapters without any extra knowledge, like watching the English dub, without being too confused, but I know it bothers me. So:
> 
> The Japanese school year runs from April to March (?) with three terms: April to about August, which is summer break (which can be a month or more depending on location because most schools in Japan do not have air conditioning), then September to mid December (for a break for the New Year), then January to sometime in late March.
> 
> Japanese students are sorted into a class room or homeroom, which, unlike American schools (that I'm familiar with), the students stay in that one room while the teachers move from room to room. There's about a ten minute break between classes. After school activities and duties (at the end of every day students are tasked to clean up as there is no janitor—it is the students' responsibility to clean up after themselves) are important. I don't think I focus on extracurriculars because, really? Would Bakura ever participate?
> 
> Up until the early 2000s Japanese students had to attend class every Saturday for a half day session.  
> This is still practiced now in some schools, but it depends on the school: the school may choose to abolish this or students only have to attend every other Saturday. Since my fanfiction takes place in 1998, they will be attending half day Saturdays.
> 
> That horrid gym teacher is from season 0 or the early manga. He harassed Ryou about his hair length. Teachers bullying students can be a problem in Japanese schools, because of the culture. Students are taught to respect authority and never to question authority, so bullying teachers are given too much power. This could happen anywhere, but it was a problem in Japan as shown in season 0 and the manga (as an available example).
> 
> Ok, a disclaimer: my information could be wrong. This is only from my personal research. I've never been to Japan (would love to go!), so I could be wrong. Please don't flame me over it. Though do inform me if I am totally off.
> 
> I did check the time zones and how Ryou's phone call to Marik would match up. I have no idea what it is now, but I know it was correct when I wrote when.


	7. Change of Heart

Chapter 7: Change of Heart

…

After the disastrous first day, the school day fell into a cycler routine. One, which Yami was grateful for. He woke to Yugi's alarm, even from two doors down, at the same time five days out of the week. Clothes, breakfast, shoes: it became normalcy. He attended school, all the while pointedly ignoring the tomb robber, whom pointedly ignored him and Yugi's group of friends unless addressed. He hung around the backdrop of Yugi's friends, never quite feeling like he belonged. After a year of dueling by their side, it didn't feel right, especially after Marik's impromptu arrival. His partner deserved this time of peace; he didn't deserve the inclusion of his presence nor the thief's presence, so he tried to assimilate into Yugi's world as his cousin with little fuss.

As he slammed a hand against the alarm in his own room, which sounded a few minutes after Yugi's, Yami smiled at the thought of mostly content that he felt with his new chance at life, and finally left his bed to start the routine or the day. After school, the cycle continued with homework and an occasional visit with Yugi's friends, before dinner with his new family, not by blood but their acceptance of him made his chest swell in joy. Some time spent with his 'cousins', as the family bathed one after another, before finally sleeping in his room. Yes, for Yami, this shot at a mortal life was a blessing, and he was thankful to whatever gods allowed this.

…

At the Bakura's the adjustment was not nearly as cheerful. Their days fell into the same rhythm, preventing any major outbursts. Ryou pondered Bakura's passiveness, but chose not to question it aloud, lest the inquiry, for some reason, opened the metaphoric hatchet on the well of Bakura's anger and invoked the former ire he had witnessed during the duels a year ago against those Ryou considered friends. At the same time, Bakura felt like somewhat of a quasi caregiver to a terminal patient. He actively tried to ignore Ryou's antics or, hell, even his mere presence, but the boy's almost constant general poor health made Bakura feel, well, almost guilty.

He recalled the weakness and illness he usually shoved aside when he was simply a spirit attached to the Millennium Ring and possessed him, so he knew Ryou was frail, but, now living with the boy, he saw firsthand the mental weariness as it took a toll on Ryou's physical strength and sapped any of Bakura's mental stability. The pain from constantly relying on cutting himself bore proof of that.

It marked the cycle, a sick and twisted routine in its nature, of the Bakura household: Ryou stressed by the presence of Bakura ended up weaker as the illness ravaged his faculties and Bakura, guilt ridden and desperately trying to absolve himself of the foreign emotion forced himself to cast the blame on someone, anyone, other than him. The cycle continued: Bakura would cave after the pressures mounted too much, became too much, and finally collapsed against it, glass shard in hand, the stresses tricking down his arm. Then Bakura's anger; then Ryou's stress mounted.

Their lives continued in those first few school weeks, not ideal, not particularly happy, but routine. And Ryou and Bakura settled into that. One evening, right after Ryou cleared away the dinner dishes and set to wash the few dishes, he answered his cell phone to take a call from his father.

Bakura observed from the couch as he lazily flipped through channels on the television. Phone calls from Ryou's father were also part of their unhappy routine: they usually ended up badly. Just as it played out every time he called, Ryou ended p finishing the phone call with a polite, but surely noticeable anger in his parting. Bakura's ears perked when Ryou hung up the phone. The dishes in the sink crashed against one another as if Ryou was scrubbing at them harsher than normal.

Ryou's eyes blazed as he brushed through the living room, past Bakura on the couch, to where he always ended up after these phone calls, the bathroom for a long bath. Bakura raised his eyebrows; still channel surfing, perfectly content in allowing Ryou the luxury of deluding himself that a bath would relieve the stress caused by his absent and distant father. The tub began to fill with water, drowning out any noises from the bathroom.

…

Bakura resisted the urge to swing his legs like an impatient child as he waited on a bench designated for that entire purpose: for Ryou to emerge from the teachers' office. He felt the beginnings of that crawling sensation in his veins, right below his skin that demanded release, the sensation that made him want to reach for the shard from the broken mirror and let out everything he bottled up. Bakura settled for scratching at the back of his hand, the humming in his veins grew louder, causing his blood to boil and ricochet across his head in anger. He dragged a fingernail slowly, firmly across his hand. The slightly raised red scratch silenced everything.

Bakura leaned his head back against the wall in exasperation. He rolled his eyes in slow motion, then rolled them back. For all intents and purposes, the school day had been as monotonous and mind numbing as the last; Ryou had been alright—sick and overly quiet—but alright; hell, life was perfectly copasetic. He had no reason to feel so wound up—halted at the top of a hundreds of feet drop, anxiety coiled in his gut, wondering what persuaded him to get on this ride.

He exhaled deeply, but dragged it out so it came out near silent. He could just make out the conversation between Ryou and their homeroom teacher through the thin walls as he leaned his head. It didn't sound particularly pleasant, he thought with a grimace. Ryou spluttered similar-sounding varied excuses about his negligent performances whilst their teacher scolded him in a tone, a concerned plaintive, lament that resonated so strongly in a murmur through the thin wall that Bakura straightened his sleeves over the newest inflamed cuts and older scars.

As he listened thoroughly to the back and forth displeasures from the teacher and Ryou's noncommittal promises to work harder, he neglected to notice when Tea plopped down next to him on the bench. The hand placed on his shoulder and her greeting alerted him to another presence.

He jerked back as Tea's eyes widened, the lingering worry she had expressed still slipped past her surprise. "Yes?" Bakura asked, lowly, sarcasm filtering through the blunt reply.

"I just finished cleaning the class room, and saw you sitting here," Tea said. Bakura hid a scowl behind his shorter black hair. He had never been one to hide behind his hair, especially in ancient times when lice ran rampant and it was simply more convenient to keep his hair short or completely nonexistent. Even when he borrowed Ryou's body in the past, with the boy's long white hair, his normal stance had been head thrown back, long locks tossed at abandon to the wind, off his face. Regardless, since his return to the world as a mortal, he preferred the way his hair slid forward to mask whatever traitorous emotions that made it a habit to flit across his face. Tea brushed her hair back behind her ears, a stark contrast from Bakura who hid further and further behind the inky black locks. "Anyway," she said, "I wanted to see how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?" Bakura let his hair fall back, revealing his ugly expression. This time the sarcasm was conveyed loud and proud as he enunciated each syllable, dragging the words out slowly.

Tea leaned forward, hands clasped over her crossed legs. "Yes, I want to touch base, you know? See how things are going since…then," Tea started off strong, unperturbed by Bakura's reluctance, and trailed off, unable to explain Bakura's or Yami's existence as humans.

Bakura spat, "Well, I'm fine, yeah?" He crossed his arms behind his head carefully so to make sure the sleeves would not slip. He turned away to signal the end of Tea's inquiry.

Tea, meanwhile, did not verbally or physically express her dissatisfaction in Bakura's answers. Instead, she pointed, jerking her thumb behind her head at the wall, and asked, "What's going on?"

Bakura replied with a shrug, letting Ryou's appearance answer her question. Tea faced Ryou, who bowed to his teacher out of respect, and demurely said, "Thank you for letting me know, sir." The door to the teachers' office slid shut, and Ryou stood next to Tea, a questioning look twisted his face. "Hello Tea," he murmured, then addressed Bakura. "Thanks for waiting." Bakura did not acknowledge Ryou's gratitude, choosing to let Tea and Ryou to converse as he tagged silently behind the two as they exited the building and finally broke apart to go their separate ways, then Bakura walked behind Ryou.

…

In the Bakura residence, the first apartment on the eighth floor, Bakura sat cross legged on his bed, holding the remains of the disposable razor and the three sharp blades, while Ryou did something in the kitchen before occupying the toilet by his room. He glanced at the paper thin sharp objects. Aside from pressing one into his knee a few days prior, he hadn't used the blades; the glass shard from the mirror suited him just fine for the moment. Saving the razors for, well, a desperate time seemed like the best plan.

He still needed someplace to hide them besides his dresser drawer. He contemplated this as he threw on his uniform and rushed through his daily routine, as per usual. When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, Ryou was waiting with breakfast and his bento lunch, which he responded with a cross between a grunt and a "Thanks."

Ryou nodded, rubbing at his eyes as he gathered last minute school items. In the process of neatly laying a stack of yesterday's homework into his folder, a small scrap of paper fell to the floor.

"What's that?" Bakura asked round a bite of rice.

Ryou leaned against the wall, holding onto it with a hand. "Hmm?" His eyes looked over at Bakura, unfocused as if the task of holding up a conversation was too exhausting.

Bakura swallowed to shove the strange revelation of concern back down then asked again. Even to him, his former host looked ill as he struggled to remain upright, even as he let Ryou kneel down shakily, then force himself up off the ground, as if gravity had multiplied in seconds. Ryou grasped the wall with both hands, the piece of paper clutched in-between his fingers, as he pulled himself upright.

"It's the Change of Heart card," Ryou said softly. Bakura's eyes widened; he remembered: Duelist Kingdom, the shadow realm twisted illusion duel, Ryou's first betrayal. "Here Bakura, you can have it," Ryou said as he handed him the card. Like the other older cards he owned, Ryou had the Change of Heart tucked into a card protector with only an opening on the top (which Bakura remembered Ryou paid a large sum of pocket money on the extra reinforced card holders rather than purchasing bulk flimsy newer ones).

Bakura shrugged, crumpling the card into his uniform pocket and resumed eating.

…

Bakura scowled as he dragged a broom across the classroom floor during an afternoon cleaning session with Marik. Marik glanced up from the table he had been dusting with a rag, observing Bakura's dour expression. "Are you trying to cleanse the floor with your eyes?"

"I don't like sweeping," Bakura said akin to a toddler expressing his dislike of an exotic food.

Marik held out a hand with the rag: a symbol of generosity bordering on martyrdom. "Switch me."

"Eh?"Bakura paused in his pushing dirt around the floor in aimless patterns to focus on Marik speaking.

"If you don't like sweeping, you could do the dusting," Marik offered.

Bakura sneered and resumed dragging the broom across the floor. He curled his lips at the unpleasant task, equally annoyed at the prospect of being partnered with Marik. Then again, odds were against him with the high number of prospective partners in their class room thanks to a certain millionaire's money-exchanging favors. Better Marik than Yugi, he supposed.

Marik bent over a table and rubbed extra furiously at a non-existent stain. "Well, you don't have to be so rude about it."

Bakura narrowed his eyes at the Egyptian boy who had been intricate to his plans in Battle City, the boy who had switched loyalties right at the end, the boy who quickly assimilated into Yugi's circle of friends with one weak apology. Bakura retracted his earlier thought. Yugi would've been a more compliant partner. He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable, "Fuck. Off."

Marik bristled, before reacting by placing a hand on his hip, stepping forward to gaze into Bakura's eyes. Bakura deepened his glare to distort any lingering emotions that did not convey rage. "Are you all right?" The question was laced with enough concern and empathy, Bakura was hard pressed not to scratch at his arm, lest Marik knew why he was scratching…

Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets, the abrasive action soothed the first layer of reaction to Marik's genuinely. When his fingers brushed against the card protector and the Change of Heart inside, something clicked.

"…I do understand, you know?" Marik talked nonsense that floated between Bakura's ears as incoherent buzzing as his thoughts ran, jumped, and bounced back in forth as an idea sprung to mind. "It isn't easy for me either. I mean, everyone is just too accepting of me, even after I tried to destroy my Pharaoh."

The paper card encased in the protector, clear on one side and emblazoned with the Duel Monsters logo—white against mostly black, would, could, be an ideal place to secure his tiny, paper-thin razor blades. He blinked at the thought just as Marik wrapped up his monologue concerning the last few weeks and his experiences at masquerading as yet another cousin of Yugi's with more good will from Seto Kaiba.

Bakura just nodded when Marik finally finished speaking, the conversation coming to a halt. He turned and continued fake sweeping, all the while looking forward to finishing so he could return home and test out his theory.

Marik dusted at another desk, satisfied that he had supposedly gotten through to the vicious tomb robber of ancient Egypt.

…

Ryou was just finishing off a plate of food when Bakura walked into the apartment, kicking his shoes off, letting the shoes fling against the genkan wall, before settling on the tiled floor, somewhere. Usually Ryou reproached him with a baleful expression, but today, Ryou just shook his head, before rinsing his plate off and adding it to the small pile in the sink.

"I'm going to take a bath," he said as a way of greeting. Bakura, too engrossed in his thoughts of blades and card protectors, simply nodded his acceptance and ignoring the plate Ryou had made him, slipped off to his room across the hall from Ryou's and the bathroom.

As water ran, filling the bath tub nosily, Bakura drowned in the ringing of thoughts in his head. He scooped up the three metal razor blades with one hand and uncrumpled the card protector against the top of the dresser with the other.

He sat on top of his unmade bed. With thumb and forefinger, he pressed against the sides of the card protector so the plastic edges split from the card leaving gaps in the front and back of the card. He coaxed the three blades into the plastic. Once the blades settled behind the card, invisible to inquisitive minds, he flipped the card upside down, the tiny slit at the top faced parallel to the ground, and smiled, pleased, at the effectiveness of the hiding spot.

He slipped the card back into his pocket without considering the meaning behind this action, and laid on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, until Ryou inquired about his uneaten dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Thanks to my mini essay on Japanese schools last chapter, I don't think I need to explain anything regarding that, but if you want more clarification I'll happily write another unintentional mini essay (pity my family that hears those on a regular basis.).
> 
> I had Ryou call his homeroom teacher sir, because teachers in Japan are generally referred to with the Japanese word for teacher: sensei, but it seems strange for Ryou to call the teacher: teacher in English.
> 
> Ryou Bakura's apartment number: I've seen it as 601 and 801. I don't know if that's a continuity error, but I went with 801 because that's the first number that popped in my mind when I thought about it. 
> 
> The razor blades hidden behind a trading card in the card protector does work, very effectively. I had to test it as I thought of it.


	8. Discovery

Chapter 8: Discovery

In the two months, Bakura attended school, his psychology class had moved from theories that could mean something, but are never absolute, to how these theories worked with fucked up people—unnecessarily confusing bullshit. As Bakura referred to it. Last week, the teacher spent the classes lecturing on a disorder where people would hear voices in their heads. Part of him wanted to question the credibility of the scientists. After all, he had once been a disembodied voice talking to Ryou.

The complacent part of him took notes, while scratching at his arm, alternatively checking his pants pocket to ensure the card was still there. Bakura poised his pen at the top of the lined paper, acting the part of a studious senior. He prepared to write a jumble of information on autopilot, whilst zoning out.

"Today, we will be covering the serious topic of eating disorders." The teacher wrote the words "eating disorder" on the blackboard. Bakura stifled a yawn. He saw Joey concentrating and taking notes, along with Kaiba. Huh. Neither usually paid much attention to their school work. Hell, Kaiba attended school on his own schedule, usually missing his first two classes, and Joey maintained his perfect attendance for physical education.

With a suppressed sigh and illegible scribbles jotted down, Bakura let his attention drift. He thought about Ryou and his mystery illness. Often he heard him vomiting—on a fairly regular basis it seemed. He hoped it wasn't contagious; he did not want to deal with any human weaknesses, like diseases. That, Bakura thought with heavy disgust, was expected in his continually proven human body. He jammed a fingernail into his arm, under the shirt and jacket sleeves, slowly inching up his arm and gritted his teeth against the pain.

"-vomiting, laxative abuse, exercise, or fasting." Bakura dropped his hand from the scratch he had made. His ears pricked at the teacher's words. He blinked.

"Usually a bulimic individual will binge, eat, large quantities of food, before the purging behavior. This amount of food is more than what a non-bulimic individual consumes in the same period of time..." Bakura stopped listening. What the teacher said had nothing to do with Ryou; his illness was not that.

Bakura focused on the lecture once more, near the end of the lecture, when both Kaiba and Joey asked the teacher questions. He squinted at them as they spoke individually, curious about their sudden interest.

"What are the physical symptoms of anorexia, again?" Joey asked.

The teacher also seemed surprised by Joey's sudden enthusiasm as she said, "I hope this is for research, Joey?" Her tone suggested her suspicions regarding Joey showing any attention in the classroom.

"Of course, miss."

"And, perhaps, you could write this down, the first time?" She paused, "Symptoms of anorexia nervosa include." the teacher flexed her fingers in time with each symptom; her other hand gestured to the chalkboard where the symptom had initially been written, only now, were erased and covered with more recent instruction. "Thinness, emaciation, an anorectic needs to weigh 85% or less of their appropriate weight, lanugo, which is growth of downy fur-like hair on their body, blue fingernails and toenails due to poor circulation, loss of a menstrual cycle in females..."

Bakura watched Joey write down the teacher's reply in his notes. When the teacher finished answering his question, Kaiba raised his hand again. The hell? Bakura listened to Kaiba's question on the best treatment options for an individual with an eating disorder. Bakura tugged the corners of his mouth up at the teacher's eventual confusion. She first recommended therapy or inpatient treatment. After a back-and-forth question and answer session with Kaiba, she admitted to having little knowledge in the treatment for eating disorder patients.

Bakura still didn't care as the information resonated with him like, say, the mental illnesses she had lectured about in previous classes. He brushed a hand over his pocket as the lesson ended for a ten minute break. Hand still pressed to his pocket, above the card, Bakura started when he saw the looming figures of Joey and Kaiba at his desk. He stared at them in stony silence.

Joey spoke first. "Is Ryou eating?"

"What?" Bakura placed his elbows on his desk, resting his head in his palms, bored.

"Idiot," Kaiba said to Joey, then to Bakura, "What he means, we think Ryou might have relapsed."

"Huh?"

"Relapsed into his eating disorder," Kaiba explained. Bakura shot him a look meant to convey: I don't know or care what the fuck you're talking about. Kaiba slammed his hands on Bakura's desk. The action made his shirt sleeves slip past his wrists. He immediately dropped his arms on the desk, pulling his left sleeve down over his hand. "Do you pay attention in class at all?" Kaiba snarled.

"And that's why my question made more sense," Joey exclaimed.

Kaiba snorted, "Yes that explains the blank look you got."

"Shuttup Kaiba!" Joey yelled, glaring at Kaiba. "Why do you even care?" He pressed his index finger into Kaiba's chest.

Bakura snorted when Kaiba grabbed the blonds' wrist in the next second and wrenched him so hard, he nearly tripped over himself. "What is this? A contest?" He stalked off to the opposite side of the room, to his desk.

Joey's watched Kaiba walk away with an ugly sneer, before questioning Bakura again. "Does Ryou eat?"

"Yeah," Bakura said. Of course Ryou ate. He always said he did. Besides he had to be eating something to be puking his guts. He didn't care enough to voice these obvious facts to Joey.

…

Yami, Yugi, Tea, Joey, Tristan, Marik, Ryou, and, even, Bakura sat under a large oak tree in the side courtyard during the lunch period. The location and arrangement of the makeshift group fast became a routine. Yugi, Yami, and Marik munched on their homemade bentos, courtesy of Mrs. Mouto;

Tea unpacked her own bento. "Aren't you hungry, Ryou?" She gestured at Ryou's water bottle. Ryou blushed as everyone turned towards him.

He toyed with the bottle, passing it from hand to hand. At Joey and Yami's intense gazes, he dropped his gaze to his lap. "I'm fine. I forgot to grab my lunch, is all."

Bakura glanced over at Ryou. He quirked an eyebrow. He wasn't aware Ryou had made himself a lunch, though he supposed he must have since Ryou had made him a lunch. As an afterthought, he speared a piece of omelet with a chopstick.

"Have some of mine," Joey offered. He held out a mushy, malformed rice ball.

"That's right, "Yugi said, he also held out his bento. "With all of us, there's more than enough to share."

Ryou shook his head, eyes still downcast, "I don't want to impose."

"You need to eat," Yami said. Bakura glared at the Pharaoh, who he sent him an ugly look, over Ryou's head. Of all people to give advice and share opinions.

"I'll eat when I get home. It's no big deal."

When Yami gave Bakura a pointed look, Bakura said, "If it shuts you all up, I'll make sure he eats. For fuck's sake." He rolled his eyes at the grateful thanks Tea gave him.

"Well, now that that's resolved," Marik said, "You're mom makes delicious bentos."

"Ever the peace maker, are you?" Bakura queried between mouthfuls of vegetables.

"Don't be uncouth, thief." Bakura smirked as the Pharaoh responded accordingly.

"I'm just trying to make conversation, Bakura," Marik said.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "The term whipped, comes to mind," he drawled.

"Bakura, please?" Ryou asked. Bakura blinked, taking in the annoyance emanating from the group. He swallowed back the strange feeling that welled up in his chest.

"If this happy shit pleases you, then," he offered as words of parting as he slammed his bento shut, arranging it back in the carrying bag. He stalked off.

As Bakura walked into the school building, he took the card out of his pocket. He stared at the image of the Change of Heart card. At one point, he had appreciated the irony of his and Ryou's situation. He had thought Ryou appreciated it too. The card didn't really hold any meaning for them anymore, but it served its purpose anyway.

He flipped the card upside side down, placing a finger at the opening of the card protector. He felt the blades shift downwards, poking his finger. He chewed at his lip. Should he use them now? He had cut himself with the piece of broken mirror a few times over the past month, but the shard had dulled with use. He wondered how a razor blade would feel on his skin. It would probably bleed more.

He glanced at his uniform shirt, a white long sleeved polo. It probably wouldn't be a good thing to risk in school. He flipped the card right side up; the blades fell to the sealed bottom of the protector.

"What's with the card," Yami's voice brought Bakura back to reality.

"What the hell?" Bakura exclaimed, jumping back. He stuffed the card into his pocket. "Were you following me Pharaoh?"

Yami gave Bakura a queer look. "No, I was on my way to class. You were just standing there." Bakura's strange reaction prompted an honest answer.

"Whatever." Bakura turned away. His heart continued to pound erratically in his chest.

"Don't forget to make sure Bakura eats something, okay?" Yami called after him. Landlord eating. Right. Bakura ignored Yami, just as he ignored the niggling doubt that Joey and Kaiba's worry had been justified.

…

After school found Bakura preparing one of the few dishes he knew how to make: instant ramen. Ryou had just walked in the door. The niggling doubt he had felt earlier questioned Ryou's late arrival. Did Ryou arrive later than normal to avoid eating? He shook the thought out of his head. No problem; he had burnt the noodles in his first attempt anyway. Bakura added the packet of spices, just as Ryou slid off his shoes, and kneeled to place them in the rack.

"Sit down," he said as a way of greeting. "It's almost done."

Ryou watched Bakura pour the soup into two bowls. "I didn't think you would actually..." He trailed off, letting his school bag hit the floor. "Thank you Bakura, but I'm not—"

"Hungry?" Bakura snarled, an unexpected anger filling him, making his hands tremble as he set the steaming bowls on the kitchen table.

"I ate at Yugi's," Ryou offered. His voice came out thin and weak, as if expecting Bakura to respond with proof against his statement.

"Just eat it so the Pharaoh doesn't bitch me out." Bakura helped himself to a bowl, chewing noisily on the noodles. He missed the look of relief that shot through Ryou's eyes. Ryou sagged into the chair by the other bowl. He picked up his chopsticks and stared at the ramen, into the depths o the ball it seemed.

"It's not poisoned," Bakura announced. As if to prove his point, he swallowed a mass of noodles. Ryou took a small bite. Bakura smirked, pleased that he was right and that Joey and Kaiba were worried over nothing. He didn't allow himself to admit the release he felt as his own concern dissipated.

When Ryou finished, he placed his and Bakura's bowls in the sink. "Thanks for the ramen, Bakura. Since you cooked, I'll pick up," he offered.

Bakura shrugged. The kitchen was effectively trashed after his cooking attempts, so who was he to complain. He hauled himself to the television, propping his feet on the coffee table, an action which Ryou usually chided him against doing.

After a few minutes, when Ryou's reprimand did not come, Bakura glanced back at the kitchen. The bowls were still in the sink, and the counters still had empty wrappers and miscellaneous silverware piled high on them. Ryou wasn't anywhere in the kitchen.

The toilet door off to the side of the kitchen was closed and Bakura heard the sounds of running water. He cupped a hand around his ear. He narrowed his eyes as the sounds of muffled choking met his ears, a small sound just heard over the television. Plucking up the remote, in one absentminded motion, Bakura muted the inane show. What was he doing in there? Bakura pulled himself off the couch and silently walked to the toilet door on his tiptoes.

He placed both hands on the wall near the door, and leaned his head on the door. When the heaving gasps halted and the choking noises started up again, Bakura slid the door open before Ryou could react. Bakura saw Ryou hunched over the toilet, kneeling. His legs sprawled on the floor. One hand gripped the toilet bowl, the other halfway between the toilet and Ryou's mouth.

Bakura's nostrils filled with the acrid stench of vomit and salty pungent spice of ramen. He crinkled his nose. Half-digested curls of noodles dripped from Ryou's hovering hand to plop into the toilet bowl, floating with the rest of the lumps of sick. Bakura gulped back the bile that rose in his throat. He threw Ryou a venomous look, and left the room. He slid the door closed on autopilot and bolted to his room.

He slammed the door closed, and sunk to the floor leaning against the door in a familiar position. He glanced at the dresser drawer where his glass shard was currently shoved under a mound of clothes. His breath quickened. He went to stand, but his legs refused to budge. He curled into himself more. Bakura felt the prickle of wet at his eyes, the worry from earlier blossomed into a tight ball in his chest. He bit at his lip, all considerations shoved aside.

He reached into his pocket for the slightly crinkled card. The protector prevented the card from receiving too much damage from being shoved into his pocket. He held the card upside down over his palm, letting one of the blades fall into his exposed palm. Bakura balanced the blade between thumb and forefinger as he used his hand to roll up his uniform sleeve. He glanced at his arm, which was littered with scratches in various stages of healing.

Even with his constant attempts to stall the healing, the most recent cuts from a few days ago didn't cause him much pain anymore. Pain was just what he needed right now. Anything to rip the image of Ryou covered in his own vomit, of Ryou making himself vomit, all, this, time, from his mind, anything to silence the here and now, anything to stop his mind cold. Now.

He breathed in a quivering breath, gasping through the pain, the anger, the shit in his chest welling, ready to implode outwards. Images of Ryou—through a sliver in the door of the bathroom, the yellow light flowed out, almost an aura to Ryou, every choking gag as Ryou thrust his hand between lips, between ragged breaths, knees planted to the floor, an arm curled around plastic as Ryou vomited up ramen—flashed through Bakura's thoughts, finally settling on the back of his tongue, making it hard to swallow away. Like the intensity wound tightly in his chest, everything compounded.

The blade cut into the skin near his wrist before he had to think about cutting himself. Blood beaded up, little bubbles of red. In his mind's eye, he could still witness the ever replaying events, the knowledgeable awareness of the past few months; he slashed again, less than a finger's width away, slightly higher up on his arm. He registered sharp pain. Bakura saw the skin split open, far deeper than he had ever cut before. Blood filled the slightly gaping cut in the shape of a stretched out eye.

He dropped his arm to his propped knees. The first cut trickled a small line of blood that dried crusty to the skin at the bottom of his wrist. Bakura watched with interest as the second, deeper cut seemed to drown under the amount of blood. It poured in a larger torrent to his palm, the blood got caught in the wrinkled lines of his palm. It doesn't hurt, Bakura thought as he rested his head against the door.

Bakura stared at the steadily dripping blood, red tracks snaking around his wrist and hand, memorized. It had hurt as he cut into his skin. The first cut had stung, much like a paper cut, while the second cut ached, like a deep throbbing pain. But it didn't hurt now. It didn't feel like anything at all. A slow, relaxed exhale, a soft sight: all he felt was the dripping of blood into his palm, like everything around him, all his thoughts were dripping away.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Japanese television: it's not what most anime/manga fans think it is—you know, all anime, all the time. No, free television channels show mostly game shows and funny spoofs. It's meant for pure entertainment. Yes, they do have anime and dramas and news, but it's mostly silly skits.
> 
> Eating disorders in Japan: this was not an easy topic to research. Because Japan is a collective society, a group mentality preferred over an individual's, people with mental illnesses feel extra shame because they are not succeeding. I'm probably botching this explanation up. I don't want to use generalization, because that's too simplistic. Instead of worrying about yourself and your illness, you would be worried about how your illness affects your group (school/work/family).


	9. The Next Couple of Days

Chapter 9: The Next Couple Days

The knocking on his bedroom door roused Bakura from sleep. The sky outside his window was light and a bird chirped pleasantly: a merry tune that was the complete opposite of how Bakura felt. His head ached; his arm ached. He flexed his forearm, slightly repulsed as the dried blood cracked along his skin. The deeper cut reopened with an extra twinge of pain. A drop of blood bubbled up. He exhaled.

The knocking continued. "What?" He chose to ignore the slightly scratchy tone of his voice.

"Um...I wanted to apologize for last night..." Bakura glared at the door Ryou stood on the other side of. His ears picked up the sound of metal creaking. He glanced at the doorknob, which was turning. His eyes widened, and his heart sped up in his chest. Bakura pulled down his sleeve over his hand, and lunged for the other side of the room in one fluid motion.

Bakura let his dark bangs fall in front of his eyes as Ryou entered the room. Ryou was too busy looking at his feet to notice any strange reaction from Bakura. "I, um, I felt sick yesterday, and I thought, you know?"

Bakura sneered at the obvious attempt at a lie. "Whatever you say, landlord." He gathered a set of uniform clothes with his uninjured arm. "I'm taking a bath," he announced, leaving Ryou alone in his room.

A questioning murmur made him stop abruptly on his path to the bathroom. Ryou kneeled against the floor, near the door frame. His card! He must've dropped it sometime last night as he watched he blood trickle down his arm. Bakura was at Ryou's side before he could pluck the card from the floor.

"It's just a card," he said gruffly. He grabbed the card from the floor, taking it with him to the bath.

…

Bakura plopped himself into a chair at the kitchen table, hair still soaked with droplets of water, as Ryou set a plate of food in front of him. He cocked an eyebrow at the single plate.

"I'm eating," Ryou said, defensiveness coloring his speech. He grabbed a bowl of soup from the counter, eating whilst leaning against the cabinets.

Bakura speared some vegetables. "Course you are." His plate included a colorful array of vegetables and proteins, solid healthy foods, while Ryou's soup, Bakura noticed with each spoonful Ryou ate, was watered down and mostly broth.

Ryou sulked out of the kitchen after finishing, parting with words that soured Bakura's mood, "We need to leave soon."

Bakura glowered at his breakfast, acutely aware of the card jammed into his pants pocket and the stinging beneath his shirt sleeve. Sarcastic diatribes ran through his mind. He curled his lips at Ryou's retreating figure clothed in his oversized, baggy uniform. No shit they needed to leave soon, especially, as Ryou implied, because he had bathed this morning.

Not long after Ryou locked himself inside the bathroom, drowning out any noise with the running bath water, Bakura slammed the apartment door shut and stomped towards the fire escape stairwell. His impromptu bath this morning must've thrown off Ryou's barfing schedule. He shot a venomous look at an older lady from their floor that deigned to stare at him for longer than the polite few seconds.

He walked out of the building, hands fisted deep in his uniform pockets and arms tense. His arm hurt from last night, and he channeled that pain as he stalked through the neighborhood, walking in the opposite direction from his usual school route.

The May weather, hot and humid with the promise of rain in the near future, made trickles of sweat drip down his back between his shoulder blades, but he hardly noticed the discomfort as he marched past a small play park about fifteen minutes from Ryou's apartment. The slight breeze seemed to nestle deep within the confines of his head, disrupting thoughts with gentle swirls.

After the short walk, Bakura felt grounded, rooted almost; he was able to put aside the occasional twinges along his arm.

Until Marik's voice shattered the relative peace. "You do know you're going the wrong way?" A question uttered in a nasal voice as Marik pitched his voice to sound more patronizing.

Bakura glared, expressing the anger he still felt after Marik's betrayal in Battle City. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Yugi and Yami tagging along: Marik's newest allies. He swallowed back bile that slicked the back of his throat and curled his hands into fists. The flashes of pain throbbing along the gash from the night before flared.

"Really," he drawled in a dead pan voice, "I didn't know."

Bakura stepped back into his former walking gait as he felt the presence of another person infringing in his personal space. He swiveled around, narrowly escaping Yami's grip that threatened to enclose his cut up arm.

"What?" he snarled to cloak the panic at the edges of his voice.

"Aren't you coming?" Yami asked. He cocked his head like a predator stalking its prey.

Bakura scowled back. He ran his fingers through his hair, anything to keep his fingers from inching up his sleeve so overtly. "No, got a problem with that, your highness?"

Yami bristled; Bakura noticed at the edges of his vision as he turned abruptly and marched off. He let his fingers brush against his injured arm as he heard Yugi chime in. "Leave it be, guys."

"What?" Yami exclaimed. "Just let him do as he pleases?"

"I wonder why he's…" Marik's question trailed off as Bakura walked out of hearing range. The last thing he heard from the group was Yugi's voice, a soft murmur that rang of sincere empathy.

Bakura cringed and cast off anything he felt. After last night, he felt justified in his contentment as he walked further and further away from Domino High.

The sun dipped beneath the farther off skyscrapers of the city, turning everything golden as Bakura approached the apartment he shared with Ryou. After hours of walking wherever his feet led him in random directions, the tightness in his chest and his heavy heart had lifted. He breathed easier, mind at ease.

As day turned to dust, the cold spring night settled around him, Bakura forgot why he remained clothed in long sleeves. Schools hadn't yet switched to the summer uniforms, carrying out the outdated policy to a metaphoric T, but the weather called for looser, cooler clothes.

The climate controlled air of the apartment's entryway first floor assaulted him. The heat served as a reminder that summer was fast approaching. Bakura's insides squirmed, a feeling he desperately tried to ignore, shoving it away into a dark recess of his mind. He had no idea how to cope with the impending heat wave; he acutely remembered past summers.

The lone rider on the elevator, Bakura allowed himself to roll down his uniform sleeve and stare at his arm, at the multitude of crisscrossing scars, and cuts in various stages of healing.

He flattened the sleeve back over his wrist. Resolute finality silenced his concern: no way in hell would Bakura ever reveal his arm. It was as simple as that.

He slipped off his shoes and stepped up into the kitchen of Ryou's apartment, taking in the spotless appliances, completely empty of any cooking attempt. Not that Ryou would be put out by not eating, Bakura reminded himself.

He flopped down on the couch, ignoring the annoyance that emanated from Ryou, who sat, curled up sideways, in the armchair, reading a book. "Where have you been?" He asked as he flipped the page in his book.

Bakura shrugged, unconcerned that Ryou wasn't actually looking at him. "Take it you weren't hungry?" Bakura shot back, an accusation. He gestured at the perfectly clean kitchen; Ryou glared down at the book nestled on his lap.

"I've been home for hours," Ryou said hotly, and Bakura remembered today was Saturday. Ryou must've been home alone since early afternoon. He refused to let his cheeks flush.

Ryou's silent reprimand about Bakura skipping school hung in the air. He ended the passive aggressive fight with, "We have to meet Kaiba tomorrow at Yugi's, so don't forget."

Bakura, in reply, jumped off the couch and flung himself down the short hallway, locking himself in his bedroom.

…

The walk to the Mouto residence the next morning was completely silent, with Ryou swinging between dread that Bakura knew about him and hopeful bliss that Bakura's ignorance about his condition and anger upon discovering it, would prevent the thief from telling anyone. With Bakura's absence at school yesterday, the consequences had been delayed.

Luckily or unluckily. He pursed his lips as he mused, going over the same repetitive thoughts. He shouldn't be doing this. Logical, he knew that. Up until the spirits' sudden returns to their life, he had been coping, he'd been dealing.

Not even a week after, found him in a repeat of last summer. His eyes burned and he blinked back the tears. Ryou reassured himself that it wasn't that bad yet…

Bakura stared ahead, eyes level with distant scenery, his preferred method of 'staring at the ground.' He inwardly cringed at the thought of displaying such an overt weakness in front of Ryou. The cuts he had made last night after locking himself behind his bedroom door still stung as the fabric of his sleeve stretched over his forearm.

He bit back the calming sigh that worked its way from his throat. He let the pain drown out the tumbling myriad of raw emotions coursing through his veins, making his blood boil.

They stopped in front of the living quarters of Kame Game shop, and Ryou rang the doorbell. The door swung open revealing a chipper Yugi. Bakura caught sight of the Pharaoh and Marik and his scowl deepened.

"Hey Ryou, Bakura. Kaiba should be here soon." Yugi said as he stepped back to allow them to enter.

"Rich boy will lower his standards to meet here?" The cruel words cut through the room before Bakura realized what he said. He flopped on the couch, repressing a hiss as his injured arm smacked against a cushion.

Marik glanced over from the armchair he shared with Yugi. "You should be more respectful, Bakura."

Acrid bile coated Bakura's throat as the insult stopped him cold. He flexed his fingers without considering what he was doing and nestled himself further into the couch cushions. He half wondered if he could suffocate in the thick fabric. "Fuck off," he snapped.

Ryou slumped to the floor, sitting against the couch Bakura claimed. Yami glowered down at Bakura from where he stood behind the armchair.

"You could make room for Ryou," he commented, looking down his nose at Bakura. He propped his elbows on the top of the armchair.

Bakura curled his hands into fists, halting the soothing repetition of curling and uncurling his fingers. He looked down at Ryou. "He's fine."

"Yami, I am fine," Ryou reassured from his spot. He had curled up upon himself, knees folded to his chest and arms reaching around to lock himself in that position. He followed the conversation with his eyes as his head rested against his knees.

A knock on the door as the clocked chimed the new hour, prevented Yami from retorting or bodily removing Bakura from the couch, where he remained burrowed into the cushions. Yami opened the door, and let Kaiba walk into the room.

The CEO sat in the sole empty space, the other armchair parallel to the couch where Bakura laid. Bakura quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not acknowledge Kaiba as he crossed his legs and greeted the group with an unconcerned sneer.

"Would you like some tea?" Yugi asked, pushing himself out of the armchair. He headed to the kitchen at Kaiba imperceptible nod.

They sat in silence until Yugi returned with six mugs and a kettle of tea with the fixings all balanced on a platter. He poured a cup for Kaiba first, offering the small plate of sugar, lemon rind, and cream, then moved to Ryou, Bakura, Marik, Yami, and finally himself.

Once they were seated with their steaming tea mugs, Kaiba opened with an informal question, "You wanted to meet me?"

Yugi nodded towards Ryou, but the boy just stared forlornly into his green tea and the floating lemon peel, before taking it upon himself to speak. "Yeah, we just wanted to make sure everything is okay financially? Do you need anything?"

Kaiba smirked around his tea mug. He set the porcelain cup down on the coffee table. "And what can you give me?" he asked with a nasty sneer.

Bakura made to speak, springing into a sitting position, and Ryou quickly jumped up to silence him. Bakura collapsed back down against the cushions. He ground his teeth together against the pins and needles sensation numbing his lips.

"I know we can't offer much, Kaiba," Ryou said, cutting off Bakura's ugly slur before he spoke it. "But whatever we can do. We are really grateful."

Marik chimed, "Especially me. You're providing me with a life." He meant a life outside of his tomb keeping duty, which Kaiba was already familiar with.

Yami also nodded fiercely from where he towered above Yugi. Kaiba glanced at Bakura lounging on the couch, "And what about you?" he questioned darkly, not so subtly basking in his rivals' coerced humbleness.

This time, Bakura spoke before Ryou had an opportunity to quiet him. "I have nothing to say to you, you bastard." He crossed his arms in defiance.

Kaiba stared, mouth gapping like a fish, his lips flapping as he tried to formulate a response. After a long moment, he slammed down his mug of tea, the remaining liquid sloshing against the ridged contours of the cup, grabbed his briefcase, and stalked out, slamming the door on his way.

The remaining occupants turned to openly glare at Bakura. "What?" he snapped, throwing his legs off the couch (Ryou ducked away from the sudden action) and harshly sitting up.

Yami was the first to cross the room. He grabbed Bakura by the collar of his shirt, forcing the thief to stand up. In retaliation, Bakura grabbed Yami's arms, the tight grip of his fingers pressed in Yami's upper arms sure to leave bruises.

"What is your problem?" Yami snarled. Bakura grinned. He shoved Yami back, letting him smack his head against the coffee table as the tea cups fell to the floor at the abrupt motion. The carpet soaked up the rivulets of liquid and cushioned the impact from table to floor.

Bakura grinned at his apparent victory, until Marik stepped in, offering Yami a hand as he spoke to Kaiba's defense. "Look, I don't like Kaiba anymore than you do, but we have to be polite. He's doing us a favor."

Bakura dropped back down, legs collapsing, to the couch. His lips were still numb; he touched a finger to them, only to notice they were trembling. He let his hair fall forward to swallow his face. The room was silent and unexpectedly oppressing and stifling. The walls seemed to lose in, dragging the glaring faces closer and closer to him.

Mental resources depleted, Bakura roared. "I didn't ask for his help!" He flung himself off the couch and followed Kaiba's path out the door.  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I've done some more research about eating disorders and mental illnesses in Japan and it's, quite frankly, alarming. As wonderful as some aspects of Japan are, their mental health information is lacking.
> 
> It's like a time warp to the late 1970s. There is more knowledge now than there was in, say 1998 (even very intellectual professionals do not know about mental health; they just don't), but the shame aspect and the extra guilt the sufferer feels for being a 'drain' to society…
> 
> I guess my point is that I'm using a western model regarding eating disorders or the more casual anime/manga approach (cultural expectations and views are relaxed in most anime/mangas).


	10. Conformity

Chapter 10: Conformity

Bakura flung himself angrily into a swing at the local park nestled between the Mouto's and Ryou's apartment, startling a group of young children and their parents. He ignored the glares in favor of clenching his hands into fists around the chains. Pain flared up his arm as the muscles flexed. As he sat, rocking the swing back and forth whilst digging his feet in the muddy ground beneath him, he felt the plastic of the card protector poke against his thigh even through the thick denim of his jeans.

He let out a breath as the heat rushed away from his cheeks, and the anger dissolved into mortification. He tightened his grip on the swing's chains bringing forth pain that quelled the ache in his head and the burning behind his eyelids. He swallowed a lump in his throat, throwing his head back to stare at the murky June sky. A strange emotion rippled in his belly, coiling in his gut.

A small voice interrupted the pooling hopelessness, "You need help?" Bakura blinked. He noticed a young child, five or six, peering into his own eyes. He flipped upright, twisting the chains to face the child directly. He leered at the child, the little boy with messy hair and innocent eyes. The familiarity of the child tore at him like a knife to the abdomen, and he spoke between clenched teeth.

"What?" A cross between a grunt and moan tore from his lips as his mind reeled with shock.

The child cocked his head to a side. Bakura stared into wide eyes similar to his own at the massacre of Kul Elna. He deepened the intensity of his glare, a front against his own swirling maelstrom of thoughts. "Are you okay, mister?"

"I'm fine. Go away," Bakura spat, acid coating his verbiage. He untwisted the chains in the swing, turning away from the child, but not before witnessing the same misery present in his own eyes whenever he glanced in a mirror.

…

School the next day would have been unbearable without the help of two new cuts from the razor blade hidden behind the Change of Heart card. The knowledge of Ryou intentionally making himself sick pressed heavily on his mind, even dampening the relaxing effect of watching blood drip down his arm. Bakura spend most of the psychology lecture ignoring the teacher drone on about depression. He scratched at the littering of cuts underneath his sleeve as he contemplated how to broach Ryou's behavior.

He half wanted to just let it fester in denial-induced ignorance and pretend he never truly understood the severity of what Ryou was doing. The term eating disorder was completely foreign to him; there had never been this sort of thing when he was mortal the first time around. Not eating and throwing up what one did eat was so ridiculous and so against nature. To survive as a thief and tomb robber, eating was just a basic function of life.

A cut reopened as Bakura scratched harshly to quell the anger at Ryou's disturbances; warm liquid coated his finger. He rubbed away the potentially incriminating evidence. The anger, raw and gnashing, swelling in his gut, influenced him to do something, to take action as much as he preferred to wallow in the truth. He forced back a grimace, schooling his expression into a mask of indifference as if to match a lack of concern regarding Ryou that he forced himself to believe.

During the break between classes, Bakura left the room, walking past the Pharaoh's pointed glares, past Kaiba's refusal to acknowledge any of the spirits or Yugi and his friends, past Ryou's haunted gaze, eyes puffy and bloodshot, speckled with broken blood vessels and deep bags, past the unfriendly gaze of everyone else.

Head held high against the festering anger/sorrow/loneliness boiling and buzzing in his brain, he marched into the toilets at the end of the hall. The swirling chaos in his mind, the impending uncertainly of apologizing to Kaiba everyone had been pressuring him to do, Ryou's awful secret vomiting, the constant…everything, was silenced, tunneled into one precise cut with his blade. Bakura blinked the emotions away as he dotted the slowly drying blood on his arm.

…

"You need to apologize to Kaiba," Yugi said in a calm voice. Bakura, high on the endorphin rush from his most recent self inflicted injury, nodded, too relaxed to really care. Deep in his chest, his heart sped faster in anger, but he chose not to notice the feeling as his increased heart rate worked to match the throbbing his arm, underneath his uniform shirt and jacket. Yugi leaned forward, pressing his palms against Bakura's desk, speaking in the barest whisper, "We really need the money he provides. Please, Bakura."

"Fine," Bakura spat in the form of a long suffering sigh. "If it pleases you so much." Even as he spoke the seemingly indifferent words, his conscious niggled at him, reminding him that his very existence as Bakura Mouto in the dawn of the twenty-first century was dependant on the billionaire's cash supply.

Swallowing the bile in his throat and pressing firmly against his arm to ignite a sharp pain, he formally addressed Seto Kaiba whilst walking the length of the room to stand by his desk, face to face. Pulling together the best of his experiences with imitating Ryou, he attempted an apology.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was unwarranted, and I do appreciate your efforts." Bakura murmured in a low voice, acid licking the sides of his throats and hands clenching into fists underneath his sleeves. Unlike the times as a carbon copy Ryou, Bakura could not play this like a game or a challenge. This moment was real, for Ryou's sake, though he himself would never consciously admit that.

So when Kaiba replied with a disdainful sneer, and scathing words, "You mean you appreciate my money," Bakura fought the urges to either punch the rich bastard in his face or whip out a blade and cut himself up in public. A moment passed; Bakura stared at Kaiba's face without actually seeing it, refusing to look away, refusing to show a sign of weakness.

Finally Kaiba stood, grabbed his school items and said, "Look, I don't really care. I'm only doing this for Mokuba's sake, so it's him you need to placate. Not me."

With that, Kaiba walked away. Bakura let out a breath. As Yugi smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, Bakura turned and whirled around, this time racing to the toilets, the Change of Heart already in hand. As he kicked opened the door with his foot, Bakura dumped a blade into his palm. He had just closed the bathroom stall door, when he dug the razor edge into his arm, on top of the most recent cut.

And his world exploded in pain.

…

Bakura's stomach twisted into knots and acid crawled up his throat. Their homeroom teacher's announcement settled firmly against his chest, forcing air from his lungs. He knew this was coming, but, now, as the teacher enunciated his speech with, "Starting tomorrow, I expect you all to wear the summer uniform," he, somehow, forgot or hid behind an iron clad fortress of denial.

Bakura bit back a groan. His teeth sink into the tender flesh of his inner cheek. In March, when he first received the duo uniforms, the winter version with thicker fabrics, a long sleeve polo shirt and blue jacket, and the summer uniform, thinner pants and a short sleeved polo, he hadn't worried about the sleeve length. But, now, his arm ached under the cuts and scratches on his right arm.

He absolutely could not wear the summer uniform. The period switched with the entrance of the first period teacher. As the class stood to greet the teacher, Bakura tried his damndest to ignore the unfurling panic in his gut.

Tomorrow came and went. Bakura donned his long sleeved polo shirt and jacket, refusing to answer Ryou's questioning looks at the breakfast table, which wasn't unusual or anything of the like, as Bakura's disposition at meal times tended to be sour. The homeroom teacher never lifted an eyebrow at Bakura's reluctance to wear the summer uniform, until much later in June, near the last week.

The first weeks of June dribbled past in monotonous repetition; any semblance of a relationship between Bakura and Ryou poured away like the constant rains. Meal times, aside from breakfast, fast became informal, as Bakura usually whipped up something of the instant variety, while Ryou, between his starving and eating, something surely, for all the puking he was doing, chose to not eat—at least not in Bakura's presence.

It had been going on for months without his knowledge or awareness, Bakura realized in hindsight. Ryou had a set routine and after Bakura caught him forcing himself to vomit almost a month ago, Ryou decided to fling his eating disorder into the light, letting Bakura see beneath the façade. Every little ritual and routine turned jaded and macabre with sinister plotting on Ryou's behalf. Anything to fuel this strange modern illness, so it seemed to Bakura.

Surely Yugi's friends knew about what Ryou was doing at this point. It was all so fucking obvious. Before Bakura rose, Ryou would make their lunches, eating as he cooked, then puked. He used to shower in the mornings to drown out the sounds and wash away the odor. Everything, absolutely everything tinged with the reek of acrid stomach bile, suffocating Bakura. Ryou would forget his lunch; Ryou would eat dinner, at some point when Bakura deigned to shut himself away, bathe and vomit. Hell, he even included side meals to compliment the meals he wasn't digesting!

The rain pounded against the apartment windows, as Bakura spent his afternoon behind the locked door in his room cutting. Ryou puttered in the kitchen, making small noises as he prepared one of those extra meals. Bakura scowled. His mouth suddenly felt dry as sand paper as he attempted to swallow away the lump in his throat.

The stinging on his arm drew his attention to the skin littered with new cuts. After a good portion of an hour cutting against the sounds of Ryou preparing food to be thrown back up, then the actual heaves, gasps, and splash back of the puking, his arm plain hurt.

Everything hurt. From the harsh treatment of blade swiping at skin to the foreign thing stopping up his throat, to the wretched sounds Ryou made as he forced the laws of nature into reverse, to the stinging under his eyelids, to his teeth puncturing his lower lip, and, finally, to the switching of the razor blade from his right hand to his left.

Bakura held the flimsy paper thin metal in his codominant hand, fingers scrambled to find the proper position to hold the blade to best serve cutting. He awkwardly fumbled with his sleeve, rolling up the fabric on his left arm for the first time for this purpose. Settled, he sliced into the unmarked flesh.

A thrill coursed through him, much like the first time he had ever cut, as three perfect beads of blood squeezed through the thin line on his arm, the only mark to taint the perfect peach of unscarred flesh.

Bakura let his head fall back to rest against the bed which he leaned against. He stared up at the paint on the ceiling as his arm throbbed.

…

Bakura walked down a rarely traveled hallway to the teachers' office one afternoon in late June. After nearly a month of silence about his refusal to wear the summer uniform, complete with short sleeves, his homeroom teacher finally called him out. When extra cleaning duties hadn't coerced him into conforming, the teacher requested his presence.

Bakura forced his shoulders to remain still, swallowing down the urge to shrug noncommittally at the teacher's demand. He certainly did not care about the extra cleaning duties; he had already committed to a humid summer in long sleeves, even purchasing shirts made with thinner fabrics on one of the rare shopping endeavors with Ryou.

As he knocked on the office door, his lips quirked at the memory of shopping with Ryou. Those excursions often ended with the two boys separating ways to place items in the basket: instant ramen and the occasional article of clothing for Bakura, and an assortment of basic ingredients to stock the kitchen and a couple hastily explained away sweets for Ryou. Chocolates, mochi, whatever it was, it always had a thinly veiled destination, a ruse for ending up in the toilet with stomach acid.

The door slid open, prying Bakura from the endless depression thoughts, and one of the lower grade level teachers guided him to his homeroom teacher's work space (the office was filled with rows upon rows of desks). Bakura took the offered chair at the other edge of the desk, near a stack of papers.

He let his arms flop to his sides, a maneuver to take any attention away from his covered arms. "Yes?" he asked, neither admitting nor confessing anything,

Mr. Kobayashi, the recent graduate from a prestigious university—information Bakura knew from the teacher's own mouth—and the homeroom teacher for his class, glanced at Bakura over his glasses. The glasses Bakura knew were fake from his autopilot note taking; he'd spent numerous classes watching the teacher read over his glasses or pick out students in the back row without ever glancing through the lenses.

As Kobayashi narrowed his gaze, looking down at Bakura, Bakura realized the purpose of those faux glasses: an intimidation act. An act which didn't really faze Bakura. His indifference to most authority kept his nerves at bay, even as he prepared for the inevitable lecture on his apparel.

"Mr. Mouto, I noticed you have not switched to the summer uniform." He spoke formally, in a pompous tone surely picked up from university.

Bakura shrugged, against his volition, and slouched further into his seat. "'M cold." He picked at his pants, at his winter uniform pants. A sickening thought crossed his mind. Would the teacher make him wear the short sleeves? No, he reasoned. He couldn't very well be forced.

"Well, yes, I suppose that would be an issue." Again with the snottily tone. He gestured to his peers with a wave of his hand to the other teachers. "However, even us teachers are wearing more relaxed clothing to accommodate the summer temperatures."

Bakura bristled. His teacher basically called him out on is bluff. No way could he be cold in this weather. With the lack of air conditioning and class rooms crammed with bodies, the school was downright hellish. Underneath his layers, sweat trickled down his back, just sitting in the vicinity of other people.

He stayed silent, letting the teacher continue to lecture in monologue. "Before you enter the school gates, and when you leave after school hours, you—that is your body—represents this school. Everyone here is required to follow the dress code." He smiled arrogantly down at Bakura. "Consider this before you return tomorrow."

He stood, and Bakura followed suit, taking advantage of the overt dismissal. His heart felt lighter in his chest as he slid the door shut behind him. Other than a vague reprimand on conformity, the teacher hadn't bothered to set disciplinary measures.

After all, it was already the end of June. With summer break spanning the month of August, he only had a month to get through, before Domino switched back to winter uniforms in September.

A voice brought his heart sinking back to reality as he entered the main part of the building. Ryou waved at him from the shoe racks. He had already changed into his tennis shoes. "Hey Bakura, come here."

Bakura grunted in surprise that Ryou spoke to him. Usually the brat remained silent, unless they were discussing food or Ryou's behavior around food, of course. He grabbed his own shoes and slipped them on as Ryou continued to speak at him.

"Kaiba invited us to Mokuba's birthday party in a couple weeks. Here." Bakura glared down at the proffered invitation.

"Isn't the kid's birthday next weekend?" He asked as he noticed the party date set for the nineteenth. Simply from sitting near Ryou's friends, he had absorbed that much information. "Whatever," Bakura said as he crumpled up the invitation and threw it against the racks. "I'm not going anyway."

Footsteps echoed against the wooden floor, and Kaiba's voice, a bit quieter than normal from his distance across the room, but clear nonetheless, called, "I have a business meeting next week—"

"On a Sunday?" Ryou interrupted.

"Unfortunately," Kaiba said in a clipped manner. He smirked at Bakura as he addressed him. "You will be attending, because he is the only reason I fund you." Bakura choked, unable to breathe. He whirled around, and stalked out of the school, leaving Kaiba and Ryou behind.  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> From June 1st to September 1st (give or take a couple weeks depending on the location in Japan), Japanese students switch to a cooler, summer version of their uniforms. They are usually made with thinner fabric and short sleeves. I don't exactly know what would happen to a student who continued to wear long sleeves to school.
> 
> I know it happens; it must happen. People do self injure in Japan, at the very least, and other students surely would prefer long sleeves for whatever reason. I think, at most, the student would be lectured on fitting for the group's sake or the school's sake, but I don't know if they would be continually harassed.
> 
> The example that comes to mind is Ayumu in the manga "Life" by Keiko Suenobu. Yes it's a manga, so it's not real life, but there are real life Ayumus who wear long sleeves and self harm. I just don't know how Japanese schools react to it. If anyone has more information, feel free to share.
> 
> Next chapter is very angry, just so you know. ^_^


	11. Shaded Truths

Chapter 11: Shaded Truths

Bakura tore from the school gates, running away from the conversation with Kaiba and Ryou. Blood boiled in his ears, and resounded in his skull. He couldn't breathe as Kaiba's voice, Kaiba's insistence, washed over him, pressing into his lungs. He ran away as fast as his feet could carry him. The pounding of his sneakers against concrete pavement matched the pounding in his head. He had to get out of here, had to get the fuck away before this pressure burst from him.

But where to go? The apartment wasn't an option. Ryou would be home shortly after to question his behavior or to puke up an afterschool snack. Either option was too unpleasant to deal with. Finally, he followed his feet's lead, and ran aimlessly, letting the rushing wind swirl into his mind, calm the pounding in his skull.

After a while, he slowed. Recognition brought his pace to a walk, and he realized his chest was heaving, and he gasped for breath. Sucking in lungfuls of air, Bakura surveyed his location. He remembered the area from a few weeks ago, after the altercation with Kaiba, after mocking the rich bastard in the Mouto residence.

He surmised he was about a block from the park he had found a semblance of solace at. He walked the block, and settled himself into the shaded area under a clump of trees. The park wasn't empty—in fact the little boy from last time cheered at his mother, whom pushed him on the swings across the park were here—, but, with his back turned against the small children and the protection the trees provided, Bakura relaxed in the privacy.

A quick glance at the streets to ensure no one paid him any mind, and he dumped a blade in his hand and pushed up his sleeve. He cut into his arm, and everything squeezed out of him in the form of droplets and dribbled away with the blood snaking paths around his arm.

"Bakura?" Another familiar voice broke the serenity of the moment. Yami. Bakura shoved his sleeve down over his hand and crossed his arms. He glowered up at Yami and the rest of their trio, Marik and Yugi, in response.

"What are you doing out all the way over here?" Yugi crinkled his forehead and stared at Bakura's arms openly. Bakura suppressed the tremor that shivered down his spine.

"Nothing. I have to go." He pulled himself to his feet and prepared to skulk away, when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. The force nearly caused him to topple to the ground. His arms uncrossed as he struggled to remain upright. "Fuck!" he cried out.

He looked into Yami's narrowed eyes. "Whatever you're up to thief," Yami insinuated.

Bakura quickly re-crossed his arms at the sight of blood staining his uniform jacket. He sucked in a breath as the pain from cutting settled in. The cut must've been deep. He could feel it now, between the deep ache that shouted something was wrong to the blood seeping through two layers and possibly staining his jacket length also. After a long moment of silence between the four, as the cut ached horribly and the sticky feel of blood against cotton urged him away, Bakura spat, "Fuck off, Pharaoh," and turned and walked away.

…

Bakura fidgeted with the ends of his uniform sleeves as he sat in homeroom class. Kobayashi made his announcements, and Bakura seethed. The bastard excuse of a teacher demanded his presence in extra afterschool cleaning hours. Not long after meeting with the teacher to address his 'refusal to comply with authority'—or as Bakura saw it: continuing to don long sleeves—Kobayashi threatened him with extra cleaning responsibilities as an incentive for wearing his short sleeved uniform.

All students were required to stay late, after school every other week or so, to organize the classroom after the day's lessons. Bakura noticed his name appeared more frequently on the task sheet.

As Kobayashi passed his desk, Bakura crossed his arms lower than his chest, near his abdomen, under the security of the desk top. If the teacher couldn't see his long sleeves, surely the extra fabric must not be an issue. Bakura contemplated telling his homeroom teacher, even going as far as to approach the man after the last period of the day.

He hoped to explain the necessity of wearing long sleeves throughout the summer months, to appease the teacher—not so much to escape the indignity of more time spent at school, but the inevitable unknown (what if Kobayashi did something worse?) That hadn't gone as planned; Bakura stuttered out a clipped "Good afternoon, sir," and let Kobayashi walk off.

As homeroom ended, and psychology started, Bakura let the thoughts trickle away. It was no use worrying now. Between the failed explanation with Kobayashi and his carefully phrased questions to Ryou (that had been a practice in revealing nothing whilst gleaning important information: the age of majority was twenty; minors were not held responsible, instead their guardians were informed), Bakura's resolve reaffirmed.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Ryou a few rows behind him. Talking with Ryou about Japanese social customs had been neither pleasant nor easy. He ended up talking the direct route, placing all of Ryou's fears on a proverbial plate. Every question Bakura uttered was molded to the guise of Ryou's eating disorder.

After a half hour, Ryou stalked out of the room. The two spoke even more infrequently than the first couple days after Bakura had caught his former landlord regurgitating his food. The most important chunk of knowledge Bakura absorbed, the piece that broke off Ryou's shattered mask, informed him to remain silent, to be grateful he never explained his situation with Kobayashi.

Harmful acts committed to one's self, by law, must be reported to the minor's guardian. This is where Ryou plucked a handful of courage and questioned Bakura's curiosity, and Bakura wrenched any clarity from his host, snarling about his disgusting food habits. Conversation over.

The class and Bakura stood to greet the psychology teacher with a demure bow, and the day's first lesson began.

…

The two weeks between Kaiba's invitation and the brat's party were miserable ones for Bakura. Even his current pastime of staring up into the faint swirls and designs of the paint on his bedroom ceiling couldn't halt the gut clenching sensation that nearly made him crumple over when the mere thought of this party flittered into existence.

Cutting it out was only effective as long as blood steadily dripped down his arm. Between the dread of this party, the social event of the year for all the middle schoolers, and Ryou withering away in front of him, Bakura was taxed out. His emotions frayed at the end, and anything and everything set him off.

The puking had increased. Bakura could hazard a guess as to why, and he disliked the answer. His scapegoating onto Ryou—he deserves it; his mind hollered a defense—only made Ryou eat less and vomit more. Bakura rubbed his arm one last time before leaving his room for this dreaded party, and entered the kitchen, shuffling his feet like a death row inmate on call for his last meal.

"Morning," he said to Ryou, not bothering with their usual breakfast tradition of fighting over what Ryou didn't eat, or what Ryou ate and puked. His stomach twisted in over its self as he attempted to keep down the breakfast Ryou placed at his spot.

Finally, right before noon, Bakura and Ryou stepped out of the apartment in unison. Ryou stared at the ground, eyes downcast, as he hid himself from Bakura's irritable countenance—irritable because where he was headed or because Ryou had purged his breakfast? Bakura trailed slightly behind, staring at, if he had been face-to-face with him, Ryou's eye level, but not comprehending anything, the knot in his stomach growing as he approached his own personal death knoll.

…

It boiled in his stomach, gurgling somewhere mixed in with acid. Bakura clenched his fist against the sound, the achingly familiar sounds of retching—sounds he now associated with the near constant stinging of fresh cuts and the sight of droplets of blood dotting his forearms. The anger coiled up, reaching out of his stomach to nestle in his throat at the images that dance across his mind. He imagined Ryou behind the closed door of a random toilet along one of Kaiba's many hallways.

The irony of this situation didn't fail to lift an iota of the rage blurring the, most likely, real gold door handle, even as the familiar gasps creep from under the western style, thick wooden door. Intimately familiar with Ryou's purging, Bakura recognized it quicker than he cottoned on when Ryou decided to have a proper conversation.

Bakura stood, outside the door, in a hallway, in Seto Kaiba's mansion at a party designed for middle school kids—specifically the brat Mokuba's party he adamantly refused to attend. And here he stood, arms aching from a long night spent cutting away his pride. The anger shoved away these thoughts as Ryou, from somewhere behind the door, flushed.

Now, Bakura told himself, he would run a paper towel against the edge of the toilet seat, then wash his hands and arms all the way to the elbow, along with his face. Mustn't stink like he had shoved a hand down his throat. After that, he would check the mirror at his reflection. Nothing like eating and puking to make Ryou vain.

Bakura's face pinched into a scowl when Ryou exited, silently maneuvering the door into its lock without that irritating click. Not that Ryou didn't have expertise regarding all the tips of the trade.The thought made him glare more overtly into Ryou's face.

Ryou paled, and he ducked under Bakura's penetrating gaze, assured Bakura wouldn't ever say anything. Bakura's hatred of Ryou's friends overruled any hatred Bakura felt for Ryou himself. A faint half smirk etched into his face when Bakura grabbed his shoulder, and forcibly swung him around to face him.

The rage, the all consuming, licking up into his head making it hard to think rage, swept everything away, except the lone urge to throttle Ryou. To make him feel every nick, cut, gash Bakura carved into his arms. He grit his teeth at the anger that quickly dissolved into fear on Ryou's pale face, at the red dots around his eyes that went unnoticed by his friends, at the small beads of sweat mingling with hastily splashed water dripping near his hairline.

Then Bakura slapped him across that face. Just like he felt after cutting, that one moment of aggression melted from him like a stick of butter left out in the summer heat. A calmness flickered through his nerve endings, but at the frown fast taking over the stunned look on Ryou's face, Bakura could not feel any relief.

Instead, the sadder Ryou's pathetic, scrawny ass face looked, complete with two at tears threatening to leak over his water line, and creep picturesquely down his sunken cheeks, the more his mind screamed to fuck off out of there. Red slowly blossomed on the corner of Ryou's face where it had come into contact with a sharp hand.

And Bakura hightailed it out of the party, past the mob-like crowd of preteens gathering around the newest video game console, through another room filled with presents and the majority of Yugi's friends stacking the multitude of gifts like indentured servants, and around a kitchen he remembered seeing on his way in, where the remains of the elaborate meal sat. He ran away from Ryou and anybody who would feel entitled to ask questions. He showed up; what more could they fucking ask for?

…

Later that night, as Ryou returned home from Kaiba's party, Bakura sat on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table and idly flicked trough channels. He never cared too much about television, so when the apartment door opened and Ryou stepped up into the kitchen, Bakura did not react. He kept his eyes locked to the mindless television show, even as Ryou sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

Ryou brought his knees to his chest and looked into Bakura's eyes for the first time in a long while with a focused glint in his eyes, like a fog had lifted. His eyebrows threatened to bleed into his eyes. "We were looking for you."

Bakura shrugged at the television screen, at the images of a game show contestant creating a record breaking piece of sushi. "Why'd you leave?" Ryou asked, again.

And Bakura turned to face Ryo. Without the haze his eating disorder kept him in, Ryou's appearance shifted, morphing into something entirely different than what Bakura was accustomed to. The landlord he had known was weak, complacent. He wondered momentarily if Ryou had been vomiting on purpose back then too.

He resisted the urge to scratch at his arms; he thought, with such an undivided attention, Ryou would call him out on it. Instead he let his emotions vaporize in the cool emptiness that burrowed in his thoughts. Ryou laid his hand upon Bakura's arm, peering up into his face as if trying to pry the information telepathically from his mind.

Bakura jerked his arm away: an automatic reflex as the cuts ignited flaming trails. He found a spark of anger, the one lone source of rage that consumed him in the past months, and latched onto it. "Tell me why you're so screwy with food," he barked out.

Ryou's eyes lit with a strange emotion for him; then his expression fell. The calmness that normally stared at Bakura returned to Ryou's face. Without a word spoken, Ryou stood stiffly, and left the room. Bakura sat, alone in the living room.

After a moment, after he figured Ryou wouldn't deign to return, he dug out a single razor blade. He flipped it between his thumb and forefinger, marveling at the cool feel of the thin metal against skin. He cut into his wrist, and the thin skin parted easily under the blade. By the time the sting washed away his stress and blood dotted the surface of his skin with little beads, the blade felt warm to the touch, a comforting temperature.

…

The weeks passed slowly, the weather turning humid as the rains finally halted. Bakura shrugged on his winter uniform, yet again. Because Domino High School had switched from winter to summer uniforms, which was supposedly a mandatory switchover, but Bakura never much regarded institutionalized rules (he found himself in extra cleaning duties because of it), nor could he bare his cut up arms, not with the increased frequency and severity of his cutting, so he suffered through the indignity of extra housekeeping. Though as time passed, even Kobayashi relaxed his strictness in regards to uniforms, or he merely gave up reprimanding Bakura, who chose to remain indifferent.

Bakura strode out of the apartment long before Ryou exited the toilet. He just could not deal with Ryou's blatant half truths and lies when he mocked his eating habits. His chest swelled and his sped walk in an aimless direction. When he finally stopped, somewhat under control of his faculties, Bakura blinked at the familiar park near the Kame Game Shop. The little boy from last few times time wasn't there. Bakura dragged himself to the shaded part of the park, away from mothers with young children on the playground.

Lately, he found his feet leading him here whenever he couldn't cope with blades or the stress got too much to handle. Which, more and more, tended to be on a regular basis. Many afternoons after cleaning duty or when he knew he wouldn't be interrupted by the Pharaoh or his minions, he wandered the fifteen minutes up here. Underneath the trees, in the cool shade from the July sun, Bakura felt control return to him. Even the constant humidity faded away. And, was it ever muggy and hot.

After walking the extra quarter mile out of his way, Bakura was sweltering in the late July heat, especially in his winter uniform. He was half tempted to roll up his sleeves. At the very least, he removed his outer coat (which served as extra coverage between the white uniform shirt, which could very easily be stained by a reopened cut, and his arm.

Arms crossed, eyes closed, head resting against the tree trunk, Bakura could finally breather easy without the sharp sting brought by dragging a razor across his skin. Even that lately, with his increased cutting, was not so much effective. In fact, sometimes, it just plain hurt. Even the pain could not shatter the icy numbness that encroached him or quell the boiling, licking anger that made him want to bash his head against the wall and warped his vision.

"Bakura?" A calm, familiar but odd, voice broke the first true silence in his thoughts in a long while. He cracked an eye, before glaring as he recognized the Pharaoh looming over him.

"Fuck?!" He exclaimed, wrapping his coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves before he could get a good look at the white fabric or the few cuts that might be visible. 'What do you want?" he asked whilst exhaling, all of his anger stretched thin with Ryou's fiasco.

Yami peered into Bakura's eyes, his own eyes narrowed with concern? Bakura must be mistaken. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine!" Bakura snapped. He crossed his arms tighter, letting the fresh marks rub painfully against two layers of fabric, and pretended the stinging made him feel calmness, rather than just more pain.

"Are you su…" Yami started to say something, but cut himself off at the red that flushed Bakura's face and the arm that unfurled to scrub at his eyes. Instead, Yami sat next to Bakura underneath the tree in the almost deserted park as most of the inhabitants walked from one end to the other to their destinations.

A long moment passed. Bakura uncurled and curled his fist, fighting with himself. He frowned at the grass on the ground, basking in the welcome silent company of the Pharaoh. Any company that wasn't actively destroying their health and bodies was pleasant at this point.

"He's making himself sick."

"Excuse me?" Yami rose to his feet at once and resumed staring into Bakura's face from where he stood, looking down.

"You heard me." Bakura glared to the ground, refusing to meet Yami's eyes, refused to give him the information he wanted. If the Pharaoh wanted to know about Ryou, he could fucking ask Ryou.

Yami grabbed Bakura's arm to wrench him from the ground. Bakura let out a low scream. "What the fuck, Pharaoh!" He winced as various cuts flared pain up and down his arm. He summoned the very dredges of his will power not to reveal how much pain he was in or the origin of the pain.

"Bakura," Yami said, not aware of Bakura's violent reaction, "Remember that psychology lesson? This is very important. You need to talk to someone about this."

Bakura's hatred for the pharaoh returned full force, reopening the deep chasm between the two. Like volcanic settlements spewing in every which way, Bakura filled the chasm with a long stream of insults and epithets denouncing Yami. "Just fuck off, okay!? You and Yugi and you're other little fucking monkeys can dick with it, okay? I don't fucking care!"

Wiping spittle from his lips, Bakura stalked off in the opposite direction, choosing to return to the apartment in favor of following everyone to school and continuing the never ending marionette play of contentment.

Yami's face burned with his rage at Bakura's words, but as the thief wiped at his mouth in the same way he had wiped the tears from his eyes when he had first sat on the ground next to him, Yami's eyes widened as an epiphany of sorts settled over him. Bakura was long out of earshot, when Yami whispered, "But you do care."

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> The information Bakura learned from Ryou is all true, except the last bit that threats of self harm must be reported. I don't know if that's true, but I can't imagine it wouldn't be… In 1998, Japan's suicide rate increased by 35 percent, so I bet there was a bit of a panic there. In '98 in the United States, self injury was still confused with suicide attempts (it still is), so I think if any teacher discovered Bakura's cutting, Solomon would be informed.
> 
> Age of majority in Japan is 20, while in the US it is 18 (and the UK is 16? Unless they changed that?), and you have to be 18 to get a driver's license, so imagine Bakura as a 15 year old. Haha.
> 
> Mokuba's birthday is July 7th, which worked perfectly with my plot. Fantastic. Why didn't I mention this last chapter? Kaiba hosted the party especially late (on the 19th), because of his work obligations, and because the 1998 calendar disliked my plot.


	12. Intervention of the Worst Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED trigger warning just in case.

Chapter 12: Intervention of the Worst Kind

Afternoon found Bakura once again laying face down on his bed, absent mindedly scratching at his arm. He didn't possess enough ambition to actively harm himself, but the scratching distorted the chattering voices in the main sitting room of the apartment. He breathed out against the heavy accusations that were thrown at Ryou from his former host's friends, referring to his eating disorder.

Bakura's lips curled upwards as the term 'eating disorder' lurked around his thoughts. Even through his partly closed door, Joey's and Tristan's voices reached his ears, increasing the pounding in his head. He inched his hand further up his sleeve as the diatribe continued. He imagined Ryou cowering in the corner, letting his supposed friends bounce accusations off him. Bakura's frown lessoned at the thought.

"You need to talk with someone. Your therapist, your father, anyone," Tea's voice floated into Bakura's room as he half listened to the words that didn't make perfectly clear sense.

Joey butt into Tea's concerned lecture; Bakura anticipated Joey physically inserting himself in to the middle at the same time, pushing Tea back a few paces as he leaned directly into Ryou's face. "You can't be hurting yourself because of him. He isn't worth it, you know?" At this, Bakura scowled, finally digging into his uniform pocket (having never bothered to change after he blew off school earlier).

"Joey!" Yugi gasped.

"He's not wrong," Tristan agreed with Joey's previous proclamation; Bakura tipped the card upside down. A perfectly sharp blade landed in his waiting palm. "He doesn't care about you at all," Bakura assumed the last sentiment was directed to Ryou.

"Guys, really. I'm fine," Ryou said and Bakura stared up into the small circle notches in the blade as he envisioned Ryou holding his hands out, palms up, in a pleading gesture his host was so fond of. "And Bakura's fine. We all are, really."

"Not buying it," Tristan said with a note of finality.

A clinking of something glass against the table, then Tea spoke in a low voice Bakura struggled to hear, "Ryou." She spoke his name with a practiced familiarity, revealing the kind of friendship Yugi, Tea, Tristan, Joey, and Ryou had. Bakura's chest tightened. He twirled one little blade in his hand, between thumb and forefinger while wearily glancing at the cracked bedroom door. "We've noticed you have been tired lately, and pale, and just ill looking. We're worried."

Bakura snorted at the clichéd speech, continuing to twist the blade between his fingers, the repetitious motion calmed the surging anxiety threatening to suffocate him.

"I think what Tea means is we're worried the stress of our spirits returning might've caused a relapse…" Bakura clenched his fist around the blade at Yugi's words, at the implication behind Yugi's words. He hissed at the biting sting.

Ryou attempted another round of protesting, but was quickly silenced by Joey. "No, you aren't okay, Ryou. I was there, remember. I know this. Stop lying!" A loud bang, most likely Joey's fist connecting with the coffee table, erupted.

The entire apartment went quiet except for the sounds of muffled gasps, similar to the sounds Bakura heard between Ryou's choking vomiting. He unfurled his own fist, revealing the blade and a stinging nick on the palm of his hand. A small bead of red bubbled up along the cut.

He glanced at the door once more and nearly jumped out of his skin as two sets of violet eyes met his own. He quickly palmed the blade, heart racing in his chest, surely audible to Marik and Yami.

"What the fuck!?" he cried, drowning out the newest intervention speech courtesy Yugi's friends. Marik pushed open the door all the way, letting himself in Bakura's room. Yami followed slowly behind. As Marik approached the bed, Bakura discreetly shoved the card out of sight, and placed his hand flat against the sheets, blade tucked beneath the bed and his hand.

"What're you looking at?" Marik asked. He sat on the bed and Bakura's heart leapt into his throat.

He snarled nastily, "Nothing!"

Yami stood near the bed. He slowly bounced back and forth, from one foot to the other. Every so often, he ran a hand through his hair. "What was in your hand?"

Bakura swallowed bile that rose in his throat. "None of your business, Pharaoh." He resisted the temptation to fold his arms over his chest, even as the blade's sharp edge, cutting into the skin of his palm as he pressed harder on the bed, served as a reminder.

"What's your problem?" Marik leaned forward as he questioned Bakura. He reached to grab at Bakura's arm, the one covering the razor blade. In one fell sweep, Bakura scooped up the blade (fisted with ends of his sheets), and punched Marik with his other hand. Both Marik and Yami jumped back.

"What the hell?" Marik clutched his nose with both hands. He whipped his head round and threw Bakura a dirty look. "What was that for!?"

Sheet and blade still curled in his opposing fist, Bakura stood trembling by the bed. He raised his free hand and pointed towards the door. "Get out," he said in an eerily flat voice.

"Bakura?" Yami paused at the doorway with Marik at his feet.

"Get out! Go away!" Bakura yelled. The two rushed from the room; Bakura slammed the door behind them. He leaned against the door, locking it in one motion.

He let the sheet fall to a crumple on the floor, slackening his grip on the blade. He exhaled against the biting throbbing in his palm, as Yami's and Marik's quizzical tones floated underneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

Ryou's tearful voice reached Bakura's ears as the two unwelcome guests walked away from his closed door, presumably into the living room to join the intervention. "Look, I'm fine," Ryou said finally, in a voice choked with emotion. Bakura pictured Ryou was staring determinedly at a far wall, arms crossed, refusing to meet any of his friends' eyes.

A soft noise, then the sound of the apartment door lock unhinging and the slight groaning of the door, caught Bakura's attention as he settled on his bare mattress. "Thank you for worrying about me. I appreciate your concern," Ryou said, his tone steady. He did not speak rudely nor insist the intervention thing was a bust, but his voice conveyed that solemnity.

Muffled sounds of everyone leaving, sans Bakura and Ryou, filled the living room, until finally, the apartment was silent.

Bakura swallowed, spittle slicking the back of his throat. Between the intrusive thoughts of what Marik and Yami, those two idiots, might have seen and the sounds of Ryou's feet padding across the linoleum in the kitchen (the squeak of the fridge door opening, and after a long moment, closing; the muffled clanking of dishes and the scraping of metal against china…), Bakura found himself flipping the blade, still grasped between his fingers, around so the sharp edge faced outwards.

He gulped down bile at the sound of silence, or rather, forced silence. Bakura sank to his knees against the pressure of everything (the absence of food wrappers crinkling, the lack of repetitive scraping of spoon against bowl, no small curses as Ryou fumbled with one of the sets of chopsticks: all these sound muted behind doors). He rolled up his sleeve to cut again into his forearm.

Then, he paused. Adding another cut to his arm, after the Pharaoh saw—or might have seen—was akin to tempting fate. He slackened his grip on the blade, gently coaxing it from his skin, leaving a tiny indent that would disappear after a few moments. No, he shouldn't be cutting himself, especially if they…

Ryou's door, across the hall from his, squeaked as Ryou opened it; sounds Bakura hadn't missed returned. Ryou walked to the kitchen, the clang of dishes deposited in the sink, the opening and closing of the fridge yet again; after a few moments, the sounds stilled again as Ryou closed himself in his bedroom.

Bakura glared down at the razor blade in his hand and at the rapidly fading indent on his arm. Fuck it, he thought as he brought the blade to his skin again. Why did he care what the idiot Pharaoh and his newest lapdog thought? It shouldn't matter to him. The equally repulsed expressions on everyone's faces as he scratched bleeding welts into his arm publically not more than an hour after his impromptu return to this world floated at the surface of his memories.

He grit his teeth, and tugged the blade across his flesh. The searing pain let him know he had cut deep enough. And, the blood rising to the surface of the cut reaffirmed his choice. It was his arm he chose to cut up. It wasn't—and shouldn't—be anyone's business but his own.

Yet as he dabbed toilet paper on the cut, he knew his arms would be covered with long sleeves, whether it be his uniform shirt or the baggy tee shirts he had taken to wearing.

…

Orange light filtered into Bakura's room, casting distorted patches along the walls and Bakura's bed. He glanced down at the Change of Heart card, with the blades tucked securely behind the card, on his freshly, half-assed made bed, the under sheet tucked hastily into each of the four corners and the top sheet and comforter crumpled in a messy heap in the corner.

He set the card on his side table, even as the sounds of Ryou retching and gasping filled his ears. The intervention seemed to help oh so much. Helped by causing multiple rounds of puking and eating after all Ryou's friends had left, Bakura thought. His arm ached underneath the fabric of his tee shirt, an ache reminiscent of the odd swelling sensation in his chest.

"You're destroying yourself," he muttered to the empty room and the steadily sinking sun, the gold light bouncing off the walls made his vision blurry as he lay down on the sheets, cradling his head in his arms.

Yep, the intervention had gone over fantastically, Bakura seethed in his mind. After a long while, the vomiting stopped, and Bakura prayed this would be the last round for the day. Whatever was going on with Ryou, it was getting worse. In hindsight, Bakura didn't think it had been so bad when he possessed him in his quest for the Millennium Items. Surely he would have felt it in Ryou's body; hell, he was exhausted just listening to the cycle.

Eat. Puke. Eat. Puke. Eat more. Puke more. Eat yet again. Puke. So on, so forth.

He flopped on his back as the toilet flush filled the apartment, scrubbing at his eyes as the kitchen door squeaked and fridge opened.

…

On the very last day of school before summer break, Bakura found himself crowded by the members of Yugi's friendship group as they huddled near Ryou's desk, which sat adjacent to his. The last remnant of summer rains kept everyone inside the classroom for lunch.

Bakura shifted at the increase in humidity due to the cluster of Yugi's friends. He bent over his lunch before anyone could call him out on his discomfort. Even Ryou had begun to question his multiple layer, long sleeved uniform preference this close to summer break. The Pharaoh had finally agreed with the native Japanese that it was too bloody hot, and donned short sleeves inside and outside of school.

Yugi pointed his chopsticks in the general direction of the group as he spoke animatedly about the various activities he planned to partake in over break. When the mention of a dueling tournament came up, Bakura felt a buzzing on his neck. Lifting his eyes minutely, he became aware of multiple sets of eyes on him. He glanced up and growled, "What?"

He found himself on the opposite end of Yugi's chopsticks. "Grandpa's store is hosting a local tournament in a few weeks. We thought you might like…" At Bakura's mounting glower, Yugi's words dribbled off into obscurity.

"There's no reason for you to act like this," Yami interjected. He placed a hand on Yugi's shoulder, throwing the smaller boy a soft smile. "You've dueled in past tournaments. It was a fair suggestion."

Bakura remembered those tournaments far too well, especially Battle City, which he had snuck into, making the top eight. Or the incident in Duelist Kingdom: one of his first encounters with the spirit of the millennium puzzle. And he had lost both miserable times; hell, he was obliterated in his table top challenge. He ignored the feelings of inadequacy that made his cheeks flame. He bit the inside of his cheek.

He crossed his arms and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joey rest a hand on Ryou's shoulder. Ryou looked up, eyes brightening as he rejoined the conversation from whatever distant thoughts he had been in. "You want to enter a tournament, Ryou?"

Ryou shook his head at Joey, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not very good at dueling myself. I prefer table top RPGs."

"I remember that." Tea leaned across Ryou's desk. "Have you made any new layouts recently?"

"Um, no. I haven't had time, so much…" Ryou looked down at his clasped hands.

"Really?" Tristan cocked an eyebrow, his face tight with accusations. Ryou blushed, dipping his head further. "You were working on one not long ago. Usually you're all over 'em at this point."

Since he had rematerialized in this world, Bakura hadn't noticed Ryou putting together a table top game once. Though, if he recalled correctly, his room once held the materials for them. He wondered where they were now. Possibly Ryou's room, he thought.

"I, I don't know. I'm just not interested. Anyway, tell me about the tournament. Are you entering Yami?" Ryou shifted the group's attention to Yami, who stepped back slightly and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment as he found himself the center of attention.

"King of Games versus King of Games. That would be epic!" Joey nearly shouted, having forgotten his concern about Ryou.

"I would love to watch that," chimed Tristan. Bakura snorted. Idiots, he thought to himself.

"I haven't decided if I want to participate," Yami said finally, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

Tea glanced at Yami, her eyebrows slightly raised in the center. "Why not? You love dueling."

"I do." Yami said. "I just haven't decided. That's all. It's a big commitment." Bakura watched the once great Pharaoh seem to shrink into himself as Tea, intuitively, continued onto more neutral topics, until finally the awkwardness shrugged away.

…

After school let out for summer break, Bakura exited his room after changing from his uniform to more casual long sleeved button up shirt and jeans, and entered the kitchen amidst chaos. Bakura caught his hand, slamming his open palm against the open doorway for the small apartment kitchen, as he witnessed the horror unfold in front of him. The door closed as much as it could behind him, forcing himself into the room. Ryou, on his knees, kneeled in front of the open refrigerator, hoisting leftover containers in the crook of his arm as he bent, hair covering his face, over a large, plastic, yellow bowl.

He scooped large spoonfuls of—Bakura assumed—raw dough into his mouth, somewhere beneath his drooping strands of hair. Bakura's knees trembled as Ryou finished off the batter, coaxed another container into his hand, and proceeded to shovel the remains of a noodle dish in his mouth with the same metal spoon. He felt himself slip, before regaining his balance, smacking the wall with his hand in the process.

This time, Ryou glanced up, looking akin to a pathetic loyal-to-the-end mutt waiting on its master, all shrunken and curled in on himself, encasing the leftovers. But, it was his eyes, the look of sheer desperation, the dead eyes of a deer that made him choke out the words, "What are you doing to yourself?"

The containers fell against the floor, not like in the movies where the accused runs off, flinging dishes and general cookware amuck and responds with heavy defensive ranting, but something more real. Ryou's arms sagged to his sides; in the same moment, the containers slipped from the crook of his elbow, some landing upright, some still securely closed, some spilling food on the floor, on Ryou's lap.

He gazed at Bakura with lifeless eyes, ignoring the wreckage of sauce soaked vegetables threatening to stain his school uniform. "I thought you were still out," he said in a voice as eerily calm as his eyes. At Bakura's jaw dropping and eyes widening, at the horrified expression, he laughed. "I was hungry, Bakura. I'm eating. Tell Joey that I'm eating. Can you do that Bakura?" Ryou's voice rose, the tinny shrillness, like glass shattering, grated Bakura's ears.

Bakura's legs gave up the battle, collapsing underneath him. His palm stung as it dragged against the wooden entryway, surely leaving small nicks and slivers. Ryou laughed again, at Bakura's silence. He shoved one of the upended containers with a hand, hurling a slimy brown mess towards Bakura. "Tell them I eat Bakura, please."

"Why?" The question slipped out before Bakura could stop it.

Ryou's eyes shined. For the first time in the past few minutes, his expression shifted to something cognizant, something human. Tear shimmered at the edges of his eyes, catching on individual eyelashes. "Because you don't care." Ryou blinked, freeing tears to snake down his face.

Bakura was on his feet, grabbing Ryou by the polo collar of his summer uniform shirt and flinging him against the open fridge; Ryou gasped, blinking madly, more tears leaking. He pressed his face into Ryou's and snarled. Ryou squirmed against the chill from the fridge. "Idiot host," he uttered a name he hadn't said in months out of habit. "Of course I, fucking, care!"

He leered in closer, touching noses with Ryou and feeling some of the frigid cold, "I care about you, for fuck's sake!" He dropped Ryou, letting the boy sag against the shelves of the fridge, still blinking out tears.  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I don't think there's much to say. The Japanese school summer is about a month long, usually for the month of August. It depends on the region of Japan how long/when exactly summer falls, but the average is a month, so I'm going with it. And don't you know, Bakura has a busy summer coming. Heheh.
> 
> Ryou's eating disorder isn't going to be magically cured, but it isn't going to be this prominent for a long time again, if you all are getting sick of it (I know I'm getting sick of trying to write it). If you have any questions about his eating disorder, feel free to ask. If it is not relevant to the plot, I'll answer.


	13. What Happens After

Chapter 13: What Happens After

Bakura collapsed onto his bed after shutting and locking his door. He held the Change of Heart card with protector between his thumb and palm letting it rest flat. Stroking at the flimsy plastic, he refused to let thoughts of Ryou's awful disposition enter his mind, attempting in vain to erase the sunken in brown eyes, murky and reflecting nothing, the— Tipping the card over, releasing one of the razor blades, he banished the thought before it could form, adding more crushing weight to his chest or the battery acid pooling in his stomach. He exhaled as he raised the blade within his fingers to make the first cut.

He whipped against air as he made a slicing motion with the blade. He furrowed his brows, and proceeded to cut his arm proper. Once more, he sliced at the air a few millimeters above his arm. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Bakura placed the sharp edge of the blade on his arm. The blade indented his arm. He sucked in a breath, and exhaled as he cut, digging the blade into his arm. A pointed, focused pain spliced on his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at the newest cut, a small knick, equivalent to a nasty paper cut, and sighed as bright beads of blood bubbled up around the red line.

He cut again, this time on the first attempt, another small incision, another red line. He grit his teeth (flashes of Ryou choking down whatever leftover his hands hurriedly grasped, spoonfuls, one after another, hair falling limply into the container soaking up the saucy remnants, and still he…), and pressed harder with the blade, dragging it quickly, rougher, deeper through his skin. He felt pain: his eyes widened at the heat pooled along his arm, a muddled deep purple puddle, he tensed his arm, sending a trickle of bright red down the side of his arm, his lips curved upwards as every thought wiped clean from his head as he could only think of the immediate problem.

Bakura flicked his arm back, all the while watching a droplet of blood cling against the bottom of his arm, as another rivulet of blood trickled down the other side of his arm, never quite intersecting the other. He flopped back against the headboard, staring up at his arm and the thin tracks snaking red tributaries. His eyes slowly closed, and when he awoke the next morning to a knocking on his door, he never recalled falling asleep.

…

A soft knocking reverberated in his ears long before he awoke, sounding akin to his alarm clock in that it jarred him from sleep in the most obnoxious manner possible. Bakura cracked an eye, gazing around the room sleepily. Out of habit, he shrugged his sleeve down over his injured arm. A pause in the knocking caught his attention, as he cottoned on to what the intrusive noise meant. Stumbling out of bed, he kicked the card with the blades under his half on, half off comforter, and crossed the room to unlock the door.

He greeted Ryou with a glare, no amount of throbbing under his sleeve could make him forget or forgive the scene he witnessed in the kitchen. He swallowed the thought, opening his door wider to allow Ryou entrance, and then sat down on his bed, arms crossed, foot securely placed in front of the buried card.

Bakura merely lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Ryou to speak. Ryou sat on the bed gingerly; he raised his eyes—which resembled room temperature syrup, warm and inviting—and stared into Bakura's eyes as if searching for the meaning of life in Bakura's irises. Bakura narrowed his eyes, and Ryou flushed, but refused to look away.

After a long moment, Ryou muttered, "You're right."

Bakura, jolted out of his thoughts, the ever pressing fear someone would notice a razor blade or cut or stain on his sleeve, the swollen, irritated awareness of his eyelids as they blinked against dry, tired eyes, the odd sensation of blood still dribbling down his arm, even under the sleeve, amidst caked on remnants of the night prior, barked, "Excuse me?" Even his throat, scratchy from disuse, conveyed his exhausted state.

Luckily Ryou did not notice, rather he held his gaze at Bakura's eyes, and Bakura took note of the glazed over appearance as Ryou glanced at nothing. Ryou blinked, eyes focusing, becoming sharper with clarity. "You're right Bakura. I-I'm sorry."

"Fuck are you talking about?" Bakura snarled, ever argumentative as he tried to ignore the rising surge of emotion lightening the knot in his chest, reassuring him in a way cutting could not. "I never said a thing."

Ryou shook his head. "You didn't have to. I have a problem." He glanced out the window, eyes glazing over again. "I know that." His lips trembled, one hand coming to rest on his chest, squeezing lightly at the shirt, fingers pressing into the flesh underneath.

Bakura startled when the extra weight left the bed, knocking him off balance. Ryou stood above him. He placed a hand on Bakura's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said softly, before exiting the room. Bakura reached up, touching the still warm spot with his finger tips. He caressed the fabric as the lingering warmth was replaced with his own body heat.

…

It was late afternoon before Bakura ceased staring at the closed door Ryou had exited earlier and realized his shirt sleeve continued to stick to his arm, the blood crusted fabric to flesh. He cringed against the sensation as he wrenched the material from his arm. He tugged on another long sleeve shirt from a pile of designated clean clothes from the floor, and pulled open his bedroom door to make his first appearance of the day.

He stepped into the living room to the unusual site of Ryou nibbling on a carrot. He ate with precise miniscule bites, and Bakura tried to yank his gaze away, instinctively realizing that his lingering stare wouldn't help, and headed into the kitchen to make himself something more substantial than a carrot.

…

Useless. The thoughts echoed in his head as he stomped against the rhythm of the voice whispering his constant failings. Bakura walked the length of a block, circling Ryou's apartment. He mashed his teeth together, clamping his jaw shut against the bile coating the back of his throat. He made a face and swallowed more traces of the bitter coating in his mouth. He raged with each foot, stamping in the oppressing August heat. He was seething, raving pissed, and for the life of him, he could not figure out why.

A couple days, the first few days of summer break, passed in the same monotonous awkwardness. Bakura rarely saw Ryou, even in the enclosed apartment, and when they did mingle, their interactions were stifled and disjointed, revealing nothing. Every so often, Bakura witnessed Ryou eating something small, a piece of fruit or toast, and breathed out a sigh of relief when he didn't run for a toilet immediately after. Though those peaceful, almost plebian in their normality, moments were interspersed with Bakura scratching at his most recent cuts, while over hearing Ryou making himself sick or Ryou declining to eat with Bakura.

Nothing in the past week, even the small instances of Ryou's caving to his eating disorder was enough to explain the mounting, seemingly uncontrollable rage bellowing up with in him. So, he had thrown on his tennis shoes, and called out some clipped remark, a minor warning for Ryou not to follow him. And, he walked. Round and round the apartment, steps growing angrier as he crushed his shoes into the pavement.

The familiar burning on his arm told him what he craved, what would make everything go away—if only temporarily with the entrancement of blood running down his arms, or the comfortable stinging on the inside of his arms.

He curled his hands into fists. That wasn't exactly a fucking option. Not really certain why cutting was not an option, but something, some incessant nagging voice in his head ruled out that alternative, so Bakura paced around the same city block, going nowhere, luckily recognizing no one, and tried to walk off the awful feeling.

He had no reason, none whatsoever, to be so angry. Ryou had eaten! Albeit half a pomegranate and a piece of toast, before binning the other half with claims it was out of season, but he had eaten. Still, as his insides melted into molten liquid, Bakura removed himself from the noxious situation before his own stupidity made things worse. Eyebrows furrowed, gaze hovering no further than a few paces in front of his feet, Bakura almost didn't notice the sudden presence of leather flats in his path.

His eyes narrowed further and he prepared a retort to whomever was idiotic enough to cross him when he already felt like pounding the living shit out of anyone—himself included. Bakura jerked his head up, narrowly colliding with the worse possible person.

"Pharaoh." A short statement, cold and ground out through layers of hatred.

Yami stood in the middle of the sidewalk, bare arms dangled lazily as he shot Bakura an inquisitive look. "What are you doing?"

The retort slid out of his lips on pure instinct. "Nothing that concerns you." He crossed his arms and glowered.

Yami's own eyes narrowed, and Bakura smirked gleefully at the prospect of making the poor bastard feel a little bit like he did. "Actually, it does concern me, thief. Unless you've forgotten the incident of you punching Marik?"

The condensation, the absolute dripping superiority awakened the bottomless rage in Bakura. "Fuck you, you bastard. Did he set you up with this? Too fucking pathetic to show up on his own?" Each word uttered raised in pitch and shrillness, until, by the end, Bakura was screaming in the middle of the street, drawing attention from the neighbors—not that he ever bothered or concerned himself with them.

He stormed off. That quiet voice niggling at him to not release his anger upon the sharp edge of the blade had long since dissipated in a desperate screaming to make it all go away. Searing pain as Yami yanked at his arm, pulling him back, flared up as a low scream. Bakura watched a strange expression crinkle Yami's holier-than-though upraised nose, but the expression cleared before Bakura could process what it meant. Instead he focused on the pain as Yami's fingers curled on the newest cut. Over a week old, and still tender as the day he had sliced into his arm after catching Ryou bent over the yellow plastic bowl…

He wrenched his arm free and crossed them to his chest out of instinct. The sudden jolt of pain brought his temper crashing to the floor, and he sucked in a ragged breath. He stared at Yami, no longer boiling pissed, rather, leveled at his usual decibel of annoyance, and regarded the former Pharaoh with a small smirk. "Tell Marik to deal with his own problems, rather than depending on his precious Pharaoh."

Bakura turned and walked away, back to the apartment. He sucked in lungfuls of air as his heart rate slowed to its normal pace and the anger dissolved into a minor ache in the back of his skull. The only memory of the incurable rage from earlier.

Yami watched Bakura stalk away. His face twisted into something odd as a foreign emotion racked at him. He had intended to visit Ryou, perhaps try to talk to him once more, but then Bakura had nearly barreled into him. He set aside his straying thoughts. After all, Bakura wasn't who he promised to see today, especially for Joey's and Tristan's sake. He followed Bakura's footsteps back to the apartment shared by the two, lingering slightly behind the thief.

Bakura jammed his index finger in the elevator button to close himself in, when a tanned hand slid between the closing doors and the elevator opened to reveal Yami. Bakura scowled. "You're following me?"

"No," Yami enunciated the syllable a bit too harshly. So that was a confirmation. "I'm visiting Ryou."

Bakura curled up in the corner of the elevator and watched the lights slowly brighten upward to the eighth floor. "Good for you."

When the elevator opened on his floor, Bakura walked out, into the hallway, and let himself in the apartment. Yami quickly grabbed the door before it could slam in his face and entered behind Bakura, who marched through the living room soundlessly and closed himself into one of the rooms further past. He blinked then greeted Ryou, who glanced up from a book he was reading as he lay sprawled in an armchair.

…

Near the weekend, Bakura flicked through channels on the television, never really catching on to modern interest in the brightly lit box, listening to Ryou on the phone with one of his friends. Bakura sneered at the thought (the stupid Pharaoh's impromptu visit and intervention monologue earlier in the week had been hellish enough; why Ryou bothered with the idiots, he wondered), and propped his feet on the coffee table. From the dining room wall, where the home phone was boxed, Ryou shot Bakura a warning look, a small frown and squinted eyes. Bakura shrugged, neglecting to remove his feet. He smirked at Ryou's head shake and exhaled breath.

"No, sorry Joey. That wasn't about—" Ryou ran a finger through his long hair, before fisting the tips and pulling roughly as the conversation seemed to shift. Bakura glanced over, more interested in their conversation than the idiots on television hosting another cheesy cooking competition. "I'm fine," Ryou said, enunciating both words as Bakura noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a close up of a contestant shoveling ramen in his mouth. His stomach clenched at the ironic imagery.

"Really, I. No." Ryou cast his gaze at the floor. A small sigh, then he spoke again, in the same quiet apologetic tone he had spoken to Bakura a few mornings ago, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to get so bad again."

There was a longer pause, where Bakura could hear the righteous anger in Joey's tone through the phone line. So it was attempt three to make Ryou better. Yeah, that was doomed from the start. Ryou barely mentioned his eating habits to Bakura, though Bakura was very aware of them thanks to the close proximity they shared. He had been trying to eat more, Bakura had noticed, but he didn't think much of the phone call and Joey's and Tristan's pathetic attempt, until Ryou blushed and placed a hand to his cheeks, murmuring a reply. "I will. I need to call Father."

Even from his spot on the couch, Bakura heard the inclusion of Tristan's voice as both he and Joey must've screamed into the phone, "Well go do that!" Ryou hung up after a few rounds of traditional pleasantries. Bakura flicked his gaze back at the television as Ryou sat on the other end of the couch, joining him. The two sat on the couch, watching a half hour of mindless game show television in an oddly comforting silence. Finally, chewing on his thumbnail, Ryou hoisted himself off the couch, and grabbed his mobile phone from the wall, disconnecting it from its charger.

He flipped the phone open, dialing a number from memory, slowly making his way towards his room as he spoke. "Hi, Dad." He tapped his fingers on the wall as he walked into the short hallway, which provided rooms for Ryou, his father on the spare times he visited, and Bakura, plus the bathroom.

He halted walking suddenly. "Yes, sorry for calling so early. I wanted to call before I lost the nerve…"

Bakura could just make out the sound of Ryou's father. Even through the tinny speakers, he could hear the concern and compassion. Ryou spoke in small voice, effectively cutting of his father's worried diatribe as he turned the knob on his bedroom door. "…I think I need help…"

Whatever Ryou said after that was muffled by the closing of his bedroom door. Bakura settled himself deeper into the couch cushions and laughed harshly at one of the ridiculous gags on the television show.  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Ryou's phone call to his Dad happens about noon in Japan, and, in this story, Ryou's father is in Egypt, which their local time is about five AM, so Ryou's waking him up. Or so the little note I wrote to remind myself says so.


	14. Purging

Chapter 14: Purging

"It was the right thing to do," Yami said, sitting down next to Bakura by the wall closest to the back door, behind the game shop, who bristled at the unwanted company. Bakura turned from staring at the far wall, ignoring the little "get together" at the Mouto's Ryou had dragged him to, to face Yami.

"What was?" he said, humoring Yami for his own amusement. He pulled his sleeves down, over his hands, subconsciously, fisting the material in his hands.

Yami looked pointedly at Ryou at the other end of the room by the couch, who was laughing at a joke told by Marik and retold by Joey, then back at Bakura. "He's happier."

Bakura curled his lips into a sneer. "He's not better." Which was true. The past week had settled down, and life in the Bakura apartment was calmer than it had been since before Bakura realized Ryou had an eating disorder, but every so often Ryou picked at his dinner, rather than ate it, or excused himself to the toilet. There were still mornings that Bakura woke to Ryou choking up food, throwing laws of nature into reverse.

"No," Yami said as he relaxed against the wall, causing Bakura to glower more intently at Yami's presence, hoping the implication he wanted to be left alone to sulk at his semi-forced interaction with Ryou's friends. "But he's getting there. He made an appointment with his therapist so it wouldn't get worse."

Bakura shrugged. As far as he could tell, Ryou's therapist was supposed to provide help for Ryou's weird eating; he wondered how Yami knew the mechanics behind therapy, but just scoffed. That information wasn't pertinent to him. He ignored the niggling stabs of guilt that knotted his stomach. Ryou was fine, so whatever. It was all good, all pretty and copacetic.

Bakura relaxed his fists when Yami returned to the majority of the group in the center of the Mouto's living room, letting his sleeves loosen to reveal the barest strip of his wrists. He stared blankly at the wall once more, contemplating his purpose in being here. He supposed he had promised Ryou. The boy had first frowned at him, a look Bakura was fast learning to distrust as actual nutrients in Ryou's body made him more clear headed, then smiled, urging him to tag along, "only for a short while." Idiot Pharaoh aside, at least the others had the decency to leave him in peace.

…

As Ryou's health gradually returned to him, his pallor radiant rather than pasty, his cheeks less swollen, and his clothes fitting better as he filled them out better as he gained the few kilos he desperately needed, Bakura felt terrible. He awoke most mornings with a headache and increasing throbbing on his arm. He gritted his teeth as he wrenched the fabric of his shirt sleeve from his arm one morning that was just barely morning and, in fact, almost noon.

The fabric clung to the cut on his arm and he ripped it away telling himself he should damn well be used to the pain. His eyes smarted as he took in the site of the most recent cut, from a couple weeks ago when he had caught Ryou in front of the fridge. The two smaller cuts had healed into flaky scabs, but the largest remained puffy and red, and swollen.

He swallowed against the rising bile. The cut had been deep, and with Ryou's impromptu presence the morning after, he never properly cleaned it, just changed shirts. When he finally cleaned it that night, in the bath, he gave up his fruitless attempt to remove all of the caked on blood on top of the cut. Now, a few weeks later, the cut had healed partially, in a raised, tender scar. He threw caution to the wind, poking at the cut, and yelped at the sudden, white hot, pain.

Ryou's voice floated under the door as he passed through. "You okay, Bakura?"

"I'm fine," he replied, quickly yanking his sleeve down.

Bakura left his room a few minutes later. His arm still burned and his head pounded at every miniscule noise. When the door opened and Yugi, Yami, and Marik greeted Ryou from his genkan, Bakura settled for dropping himself to the couch, any forlorn thoughts of consuming food forgotten. His stomach churned with nausea as the pain intensified by the guests' extra voices.

Ryou invited the group in, even providing house slippers for them. Bakura chose to prop his bare feet on the coffee table as a response to Ryou's general cleanliness. Ryou smiled brightly at him, and he glowered right back.

"Hello Bakura," Yugi said as he sat down on the couch, along with Yami and Marik. Ryou curled up on the chair, letting his slippers fall to the floor as he nestled in the oversize chair.

"Hi," Bakura said, crossing his arms. He bit back a grimace of pain as Yami and Ryou threw him worried looks. "What? I said hi." He sank back into the cushions, hoping the soft material would alleviate his headache. Damn, it was too early for this.

"Anyway," Ryou redirected their attention, "You guys never said why you were coming. I don't mind, of course." He smiled.

"We wanted to invite you to Grandpa's tournament," Yugi said. His eyes lit up brightly and he talked animatedly, waving his hands about. "I mean, formally." Yami presented Ryou with a sealed envelope with a crest of the Kame Game shop.

Ryou opened the envelope as Yugi continued to explain about the competition. "It's just a local tournament, and Grandpa's running it with a few other store owners, so there won't be any holograms or anything fancy like the last couple." He trailed off, but everyone in the room knew he meant the last few tournaments which had been held by Kaiba Corporation, a ruse by Seto Kaiba to achieve dueling victory against Yugi Mouto, or now, Yami Mouto. Yami hadn't actually entered any of the most recent dueling competitions, much to everyone's confusion and surprise.

Ryou glanced at the contents of the letter coupled with a general advertisement. He handed it back to Yugi. "I would love to come watch, but I'm not very good at dueling." He jerked his thumb at Bakura. "Besides he did all the dueling."

"That's right," Marik agreed. Bakura turned his hateful expression on his former ally. He leaned forwards, so he was looking directly into Bakura's glare. "I remember Battle City. You could've won, you know."

Bakura flushed from embarrassment rather than the sticky heat of August. He remembered Battle City too, and he did not like the direction this was going, especially when Yami's eyes softened as he glanced at Ryou, then Bakura. Surely everyone remembered he threw the duel for Ryou's sake.

"I'm not interested," he said when Yugi tried to hand him an envelope similar to Ryou's

Marik cocked his head. "Why not?"

Bakura sighed loudly, and Ryou jumped up from his curled position, ever the peace maker. "Oh I forgot; let me make some tea for everyone. Any suggestions?" He gave everyone a momentary glance as he waved his arm in the general direction of the kitchen.

After Ryou left to four heads shaking noncommittally, Bakura found himself at the mercy of the remaining three. "You're a good duelist," Marik continued.

Yami looked at Bakura with one of those sympathetic, knowing looks he could not stand. Even trying to look empathetic, the Pharaoh still looked high-and-mighty and mocking. Bakura chose to keep his current ugly sneer in place as Yami voiced his opinion. "There were many duels that you almost won. We were always challenged when dueling you."

"He's right," Yugi chimed.

Bakura stared resolutely at the kitchen entrance where he could see Ryou preparing tea and a selection of snacks, fruit wedges, crackers, and small candies. At their heavy stares and the subsequent mounting pressure in his head, Bakura snapped just as Ryou entered the room with the tea kettle and mugs in one hand and the snacks balanced on a single plate in the other, "I know I'm good. I'm just not interested!"

"Then why don't you participate?" Ryou asked as he arranged the tea kettle and mugs around the table. He began pouring tea into the mugs. "It could be fun." As he finished, he grabbed an apple wedge and bit it in half, the snap grating against Bakura's headache.

"Because I don't fucking want to," he snarled, gulping at the steaming hot liquid.

"Okay then," Ryou said calmly, still chewing on his apple slice. After a long moment he swallowed, a slightly discontent look twisted his face.

…

Bakura stretched his arms over his head, then winced and jerked his arms back to his sides as pain flared up along his covered forearm. He hissed; Ryou glanced over at him from the armchair he curled up in as the two watched some crappy game show on the television.

"You okay?" Ryou asked. Bakura flushed, realizing in that moment what had happened. He crossed his arms and glared in the direction of the television. Ryou tried again, "Bakura?"

"I'm fine," Bakura ground out, a horrible sinking in his stomach told him Ryou wasn't about to let it drop. "Must've bruised it or something," he muttered after a long minute under Ryou's gaze. The lack of puking and inclusion of food in Ryou's life made the boy more cognizant. The realization he would have to hide this better nagged at him.

Eventually Ryou's gaze slid back to the stupid game program, and Bakura closed himself in his room at the first opportunity that wasn't overly suspicious. He rolled up his sleeve after locking the door and looked down at the one festering cut. Later tonight, during his bath, he would properly clean that, but right now he needed to get rid of anything that gave away his cutting. Honestly, why hadn't he came to that conclusion sooner? He berated himself mentally as he stared over the contents of his room.

Once again, he was struck with the thought why should he bother hiding it? Somehow, without ever actually answering his own suppositions, he knew it was necessary, so he set to the task of purging his room. He slid open the second to top drawer of his dresser and dug a hand under the layer of clothes. Smiling grimly, Bakura plucked the plastic bits that had encased the razor blades in the trading card sleeve.

Those had been there since late March. He flung the leftover plastic in a random empty grocery bag, probably also from the first shopping trip in March. He glanced at his bed with a single cover sheet and comforter piled messily on top, the desk where he flung his uniform at most school days—how long had it been since the uniform or the bed sheets had been cleaned? His inability to remember a time disgusted him.

Bakura gathered the offending items and balled them in a pile by the door. He surveyed the litter of dirty and clean clothes on the floor. He picked them up a few at a time, and sniffed each article individually: clothes determined to be clean were tossed to the wall and the dirty pieces joined the comforter. Bakura peered under his bed on a whim, and hurriedly grabbed what lay under his bed.

Blood soaked paper towels, likely enough to fill a whole roll, had been swept under his bed, or dropped in the gap between the bed and the wall. That was definitely something Ryou would notice. He stuffed them into the bag. The bag was semi translucent, so the large quantity of towels dotted with varying drying blood was visible. He vowed to figure out a solution to that.

For now, he could probably pitch the bag in one of the trash bins at the park. Decision made, he stuffed the overly full bag into his school bag. This would be a pain, Bakura realized. The briefcase like bags required by the school didn't mask the extra addition. He sighed to himself and stashed everything back under the bed. Maybe, when, and if, he would deal with that later, sometime, tomorrow perhaps. The television in the living room had been silenced, probably turned off by Ryou, in the time he had been organizing the crap in his room. He heard the tinkering of dishes and his stomach rumbled. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, and realized Ryou was probably starting lunch.

He should go out there, offer to help, do something, but he remained behind his closed door, drowning in the uselessness he felt. Frankly, he didn't want to go out and help cook. Why would he? Ryou still obsessed over food, so whatever he served was in precise amounts and included stringently healthy foods—or the closest Ryou could achieve with frozen meals. It was no fun helping Ryou, but it was proper. And polite. And Bakura's insides churned with the knowledge he should budge up and just go do it.

He toyed with the Change of Heart card in his hands, flipping the card autonomously. When had he reached into his jeans pockets? A blade glinted at him from behind the card face. That was something he could do instead.

Bakura pushed himself up off the floor, and dragged himself and the pile of dirty laundry out near the kitchen where the washer was kept. Sure enough as he dumped the items in the washer, unconcerned if they were sorted or over the fill line, Ryou had lunch halfway done. He was preparing some vegetable heavy meat and rice dish.

He forced his voice to remain steady, and asked, "Want some help?" He swallowed down the urge to clear his throat.

Ryou glanced up from a sizzling pan filled with slowly cooking broccoli florets. "Sure." He pointed at the cutting board where a cucumber lay next to a knife. "Slice up the cucumber."

Bakura shrugged at the slight raise in Ryou's voice, the unasked inquiry. He still hesitated with asking for anything. Bakura resisted glowering at the obnoxious frightened kitten act, and washed his hands in the sink. He took great care not to lift his sleeves higher than the bottoms of his wrists.

"Normal slices?" He clarified, refusing to meet Ryou's gaze.

…

"What are you doing?" Joey's voice broke through Bakura's one track thoughts as he lugged the garbage bag from earlier, filled with wads of blood soaked paper towels, out the apartment doors. He scowled. He thought he had made it out worry free as Ryou locked himself in the bathroom to barf his lunch up in the toilet.

Ryou slipped away after chewing the last grain of rice; Bakura knew what he intended to do. If he was a better person, he would've mentioned something as Ryou gulped down two glasses of water with his meal. Maybe if he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts on how to sneak out an obviously rotund bag of cutting paraphernalia, he would've called Ryou out. He started therapy on Friday, on tomorrow. Bakura held ammunition to make Ryou hesitate… "A hand waved at his face, and Bakura's demeanor chilled to prevent any unintentional leakage of emotions Joey wasn't warranted to see, that no one should witness.

"What do you want?" he snarled. He hoisted the bag over a shoulder and stalked off, leaving the apartment behind. He stomped through the parking lot, leaving Joey behind to gape stupidly. Or that's what he hoped the idiot would do. Fate tortured him, Bakura thought, as a hand landed on his opposite shoulder. He stilled. He turned to face Joey reluctantly, more concerned about the nature of the contents enclosed by the black plastic. He ground out, "What?"

Joey rubbed the back of his head. "Who's chopped up in there?" he asked, with a nervous chuckle. He reached for the bag with his hands, but was cut off by Bakura flipping the bag further behind his back. "Seriously, what'ya have in there?"

"None of your concern," Bakura said.

Joey's eyes widened. "I'm going to check on Ryou."

Bakura smirked; a small bubbling of humor that the blond idiot would have to suffer with Ryou's purging this time. "You'll find he is indisposed." Bakura turned and continued to walk off the apartment property, a grin slipped on his face as he heard Joey's pace quicken as the other boy practically ran for the apartment lobby.

He made the familiar walk to the park about a mile from the apartment, loosing himself in the rhythm of the routine. He half expected to stop at the park for a relaxing cut or two; he had his blades, but he didn't feel up to cutting when his arm still stung, so he let the thought drift away. As he approached the park, his footsteps slowed. He surveyed the immediately vicinity, before quickly crossing the road and depositing the bag into one of the garbage cans.

Remembering Joey's inquiries about the contents of the bag, he shoved it underneath the garbage rotting in the sun. He tried to ignore the smell on his fingers as he made the trek back to the apartment. At least Ryou would be done puking and most likely done cleaning the mess by the time he returned.

At least Ryou attempted to be discreet with his habits post Bakura's admission.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> The Japanese recycling system makes the USA's (which is the only country I can speak for) pale in comparison. This isn't something I have extended knowledge about, but I do know that there are certain avenues one has to take to dispose of various types of garbage. I'm not sure if it was so stringent in 1998, but as recycling was somewhat talked about in my little hick town in the late 1990s, I'm sure something existed. Bakura simply doesn't care.


	15. The Beach Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> This plot in this chapter is taken from a scene in "Please Kill Me" by Sozuki. It's more of a dedication to her fanfic then anything else. I absolutely adored her story in ninth grade. I was coming up with ideas to lengthen "Insignificant" this past summer (as I was cleaning out a friend's pool) and the first thing that popped in my head was: let's do a beach scene!

Chapter 15: The Beach Part 1

He was stealing razors. Well, that was Bakura's plans for the day: nicking razors from the local convenience store. The morning dwindled away as Bakura sat behind the closed and locked door of his bedroom, trying to grip one of his blades to cut into his arm. He had been aiming to reopen his still throbbing wound, and found the blade glided over his skin with the precision of a butter knife. Unless he pressed deeply into his flesh and pulled.

But that hurt. Hell, the thought of wrenching dull metal through clean flesh or a sore, few week old cut made his skin crawl. Bakura bristled and walked under the blindingly bright lights at the convenience store entrance. The loud noises of customers perusing the aisles, the chirpy voices of overly friendly employees, and the buzzing and flat artificial feminine voices from various electronics caused Bakura to hesitate. Unlike the uniform store he had stolen the first razor from back in March, this place was overrun with every modern technology.

He noticed the solitary camera pointing towards the registers, and he smirked. Not so well stocked after all, Bakura reasoned. He would just need to stay away from the crowded areas. The store wasn't even equipped with a security system by the doors. He stretched his arms over his head, letting the joints to pop loudly. What a wonderfully trusting country Japan was. With that thought, he meandered to the aisle brimming with every personal aide item available.

He picked the cheaper variant of razors, not that he acknowledged the prices as he did not plan to purchase anything. He skimmed his eyes over the more expensive razors, and found the blades (especially on the packaging offering five blades for a fine shave) too thin for his liking. He didn't notice the razors he grabbed were pink until he plucked one from the plastic wrapping.

He suppressed the urge to shrug. It made no difference, especially after he picked apart the plastic and revealed three shiny, brand new blades—three sharp blades. Bakura pocketed the single pink razor, and left the loudness of the store. As the air conditioned cool seeped away, replaced by muggy late August humidity, Bakura took joy in the quickly slipping away summer break. He tugged on his sleeves as if the action could circulate the oppressive heat.

Soon enough, he told himself, school would start up and impose the long sleeved uniform rule, then the temperature would steadily drop through September and October. Just as soon as he suffered through the last week of August and the tournament the Mouto's were hosting next week. He felt his lips curl back in a sneer, and he patted the bulge in his pocket, his plastic and metal hundred yen prize.

…

Bakura and Ryou lounged in front of the television that evening after dinner. For the most part, dinner had been a calm affair: Ryou and Bakura ate and completed the meal by washing up—Ryou washed and Bakura rinsed and dried. He managed to complete the task without lifting his sleeve and Ryou did not rush off to vomit up the meal, so Saturday was better than Friday, and the two celebrated with a senseless game show and a relaxing evening.

On the first commercial break, ads serving as normalcy in the chaos of the game show, Ryou offered to make tea. Two steaming mugs of green tea later, the two were fully relaxed as they, eyes wide and cackling indecently, watched the antics of people so desperate for fame or money. Surely, Bakura thought, one would have to be offered copious amounts of money to willingly flop so pathetically to shower in the nude on public television. It wasn't the strategic rules of the game that kept Bakura's or Ryou's attention.

"This is just bad," Ryou remarked, almost as a continuation of Bakura's thoughts. He sipped at his cup of tea as the—surprise!—naked woman was relinquished to the lucky winner and the entire studio audience and every viewer in the country.

Bakura laughed and threw Ryou a glance. "It really is. I think I prefer the commercials over this." He gestured at the television, at the game show, which abruptly went to a commercial as if challenging Bakura's statements.

Ryou leaned forward as the commercial blared, in an obnoxious parody of a sensual feminine voice, about the newest electronic gadget. "That would be nice," he murmured.

Bakura looked at it, asking blankly, "What is it?"

"It's like a VCR," Ryou said, to which Bakura continued to stare blankly at him. Ryou scratched his head as he tried to come up with an answer to Bakura's confusion. "It lets you play TV shows at home. Yugi has one; it's how Pegasus invited him to Duelist Kingdom."

Here Bakura nodded as the information sank in. He wasn't around for the viewing of the tape, but he had seen the VCR at the Mouto's. If he thought back hard enough, he remembered it from the impromptu 'modernity' lessons he and the idiot Pharaoh had received. "Why don't you have one, then?"

Ryou shrugged as the commercial changed to the newest cell phone ad. "I never really watched much TV before, so I never wanted one. I used to play a lot of tabletop games. I never had much time to care about it."

Bakura nodded. He tried to quell the guilt pooling in his stomach. Even though Ryou had not mentioned the RPG crap to be cruel or passive aggressive, Bakura still remembered his own involvement in those games. "I see," he said finally, and the mood in the room soured. He plucked himself off the couch and headed to his bedroom. He had better things he could be doing than drowning in past memories, of which still remained, tantalizingly new, in his pocket.

…

Bakura awoke the next day, Sunday, later to the ever present soreness from the cut-that-would-not-heal and the newest pinpricks of pain from his better-things-to-do-last-night, earlier than his usual routine of dragging himself out of bed, rubbing the crusty matted gunk from his eyes just before lunch He blinked, going from half asleep and confused by the sounds of early morning birds chirping, to conscious of Ryou holding a phone conversation on his mobile phone from across the hall. With his door open. He threw himself back on his bed, head smashing against his pillow. He would never get back to sleep with the constant stinging from the cut, his pounding head, and the insufferable humidity.

He listened to the end of Ryou's conversation as he stared upwards at the ceiling, at the tiny splinters and nooks he was familiar with. "The beach? Today?" A pause. Bakura ran an arm lightly up and down his arms. A beach outing would be…unpleasant, surely. "Well, I suppose we could. We don't have anything else planned." Bakura outright grimaced at the thought of sitting in the sweltering sun. At least the apartment blocked the direct influence of the sun.

After a minute of pleasantries, Ryou hung up the phone, and Bakura stalked out to the kitchen, snarling at Ryou in the process, "Done planning my life for me?"

Ryou frowned, mobile phone still in hand, "You don't have to go, you know."

Bakura chose to keep his confirmation and agreement silent as he stormed past Ryou to the bathroom.

…

Bakura plopped down on the couch nearly tossing a premade bag full of supplies for the beach on the floor beside him. Ryou looked up from the kitchen where he was preparing a bento for himself and Bakura. "You are coming?" His face lit up.

Bakura shrugged, just kicking the bag lightly as a response.

Ryou added rice balls on the top layer, before closing both bento boxes. "I made you one just in case," he said as he slipped a wide rubber band on each, placing them in a cloth bag.

"You made me a bento?" Bakura asked, gazing down at his fingers. The edges of his vision blurred, and he swallowed a lump down his throat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ryou said, setting the bag down next to Bakura's. He surveyed the apartment. "Well I think we're done. Just have to wait for the rest to meet us." He flicked on the television with the remote. As a mindless show filled the small apartment with garish noises, Bakura curled up with his knees to his chest, a satisfied calmness spreading over his countenance.

Time passed with the ending of the first game show, to the beginning of a comedy sitcom, before the entire group: Yugi, Yami, Tea, Joey, Tristan, and Marik, arrived. Ryou let the group in, handing the least packed individuals, Joey and Tristan, extra towels and snacks. "So, we're ready?" he asked.

After a round of nods of confirmation, the group stumbled out of the apartment, with Bakura at the rear. He swore, remembering something suddenly, and smacked his fist against the door. "Be right back."

"Where are you—" Yami asked.

"Forgot something," Bakura called, barreling back into his room. Digging through his dresser drawers in a blind panic, he shoved clothes to one side, not noticing or caring when some articles fell to the floor. At the very bottom of the third drawer, he saw the Change of Heart card. He plucked the card up and shoved it into his pockets. He turned on a heel, and followed the group out to the hallway and down eight floors to the parking lot, where Solomon Mouto waited in a van.

"What'd you forget?" Marik asked as Ryou breathed, "A van? Where did you ever get one?"

Bakura slid into the vehicle, mumbling, "Nothing important," letting Yugi extrapolate on Ryou's interest, and Marik's interest wavered from his suspicions to the vehicle-talk.

"One of Grandpa's friends let him borrow it. It's foreign made."

Tea laughed as she buckled her seatbelt, glancing up front where Solomon sat on the left side rather than the right. "I didn't even notice. So it is."

"Is that harder to drive?" Joey leaned forward from his spot, encircling his arms around Solomon's headrest. "I could help you out, Gramps, you know, if you need it."

Tristan smacked Joey on the head. "He doesn't need your kind of help."

"Besides, you can't get a driver's license in Japan until you're eighteen," Marik announced from the back.

Joey whirled his head around to face Marik, nearly taking out Bakura, who flattened himself against Ryou. He uncrossed his arms momentarily to catch himself. Joey spat, "Damn foreigner know-it-alls."

Bakura glowered as he repositioned himself, and crossed his arms once more. Joey gulped, turning around to face the front, where Solomon and Yugi were chuckling from the front seat. Bakura leaned his head against the back of the car, tightening his folded arms. His one cut still throbbed, his head pounded relentless, and it was a living fucking oven.

It was going to be a long car ride.

…

The beach was just as bad as Bakura surmised. During his angry sulking in the morning, he had prepared what hopefully passed as appropriate beach wear. When Tea stripped to a low cut two piece suit resembling what Bakura considered under garments, he questioned his choice.

Alone to change, he stripped to swimming trunks. He stared at his exposed arms. No way was he going to walk out there with the obvious scars, some white, but mostly bright red in the heat, new smatterings of open wounds, and the one cut, which was still raised, red, and sore, and kind of yellow… Bakura grimaced, throwing on his white, collared shirt, without bothering to button it.

…

Bakura resolutely ignored the voices trying to get his attention off to the side. He stretched languidly along the towel Ryou had packed for him. Thoughtful brat. He toyed with the edges of his shirt sleeves. Summers had been warm in Egypt. Logically he knew this, however the heat, as he remembered from his first life, had been a dry heat. Unlike the Japanese sun that bore down on him with a muggy humidity. He flicked a hand around his collar, grimly wiping sweat away.

Ugh. The long sleeves and extra layer didn't help matters any, but like hell he was going to take it off. "Oi! Bakura!" a shout finally broke through his forced concentration on anything but the people he was coerced to spend time with.

Why had he agreed to this excursion again? Oh right, the smile that lit up Ryou's face. Not that he cared about him or anything. He cocked his head at Marik, the ring leader in trying to get him to participate in…some sort of water game. Even he, with his lack of concern regarding societal niceties, acknowledged the glares that Ryou's group of friends received ranged from pointed disapproval and outright fury.

Most of the beach dwellers propped up shaded tarps and barbecued a meal. In fact, aside from young children, their group was comprised of the only older people in the water. Reluctantly Bakura replied to Marik (or the idiot would never deign to shut up), "Yes?" Blunt. Simple, and to the point.

"Can you second me?" Ryou asked, the only one else who was actually on the sand. Though he figured Ryou would join the others in the water after he conquered his aversion to showing his slightly less skeletal frame. Bakura however, was not going in the water. Ever.

He nodded, acquiescing to Ryou as the boy shot him a toothy grin. Bakura plucked a second sheet of paper from his hands. "What're we doing exactly?" he asked as he plopped down next to Ryou.

Ryou scratched his neck. "You know, I really don't know." He laughed, a light hearted sound Bakura doubted he'd heard escape Ryou's mouth before. Bakura smirked. Which instantly froze on his face and slid off when Ryou called Yami over to clarify.

"Do you have any idea how this works?" He gestured at the paper filled with what must have been Joey's signature chicken scratch.

Yami set a hand on Bakura's shoulder and leaned over him to assess the instructions better. Bakura squashed the flinch that desperately wanted to shudder through his upper back. Bakura yanked his shoulder forward, and Yami slipped. He hid a smirk, especially when Ryou's head tilted towards him in a disapproving frown. Yami had to step awkwardly to regain his balance much to Bakura's pleasure. Ryou angry at him in defense of his friends and disgracing Yami: ah normalcy. He ignored the small pang in his chest, shoving all his thoughts aside to pretend he cared about the rules of some stupid made up game.

And, oh was it stupid. After Yami finished explaining the mechanic of the game—Bakura suspected he had devised this game as it seemed contrived to allow Yugi or Yami the win, or whoever started as the leader. Yes, very contrived. Bakura tossed the papers down, satisfied when the top most sheet floated away on a breeze.

He stalked off, intent on returning to the quiet of his towel. At least he could nurse his headache in peace. Sod Ryou's opinion of him. He laid down on the towel, facedown and pressed his forehead into the warm sand. With his eyes close, he could pretend to sleep. He inhaled a deep breath, and for a moment nothing hurt—not his head, not his arm, not his gut. When had that started hurting, he wondered.

A prodding, someone's, a dead someone's, finger jabbed at his arm. Thankfully the finger poked against his upper arm which was relatively free of open wounds. He only cut there when his forearms ached too much to cut up. The cuts on his upper arm tended to be deeper, and the wounds didn't bleed enough quite frankly. Bakura rolled over on his side, propping his head on his arm. Unconsciously, he grasped the edge of his shirt sleeve in his palm.

"What do you want, Pharaoh?" he snapped as the sun flashed in his eyes, reminding him he felt like shit.

Yami kneeled next to him and spoke in what must've been a forced neutral tone. "Ryou's worried about you. Said you seemed more distant than usual."

Bakura snorted. As if Ryou said anything to Yami. Now that his health was improving, Ryou tended to bring up his qualms regarding Bakura himself, a habit Bakura wasn't sure if he liked or not. "Fuck off, you don't really give a damn," he drawled, letting the words roll slowly off his tongue.

Yami frowned, but stood up with a huff. "Fine," he practically hissed. "You're right. I don't care." He hesitated, staring down at Bakura. His silhouette partially eclipsed the sun, but not well enough for Bakura to remain silent about Yami's lingering presence.

Bakura waved his opposite head, momentarily forgetting about the loose sleeve. He caught himself seconds later, and snarled at Yami and his goddamn furled brows. "Fuck. Off."

Finally, Yami did. Bakura flopped back to the ground, his muscles trembling at the exertion of keeping himself propped upright. He really did feel ill. He blamed the beach, the humid sun, and his weak resolve. For the next beach venture, he was staying home. Hell, it probably would be more entertaining than watching Yugi in the far off distance of the ocean single handily winning some pathetic fake game.

An hour later, he remained lounging on a towel on the sand, considering different methods to escape the sun, while the rest of the group ran around in the water scantily clad. Only Ryou remained, still wearing the clothes he had worn over in the car, a loose fitting short sleeved top and baggy track pants.

A wet hand dropped on Bakura and Ryou's shoulders. Ryou let out a high pitched shriek, while Bakura flipped his head around to speak venom and enact homicide on the idiot foolish enough… Joey laughed maniacally. "Come join us."

"No."

"I'm good here," Ryou said. He tugged at the top of his shirt, twisting the material.

Joey narrowed his eyes. "You're letting that affect you?" he spoke in a low, no nonsense tone. "Go in as you are then."

"I couldn't," Ryou shook his head and twisted his shirt fabric more.

"Yes you can!" Joey grasped Ryou by the arm, physically dragging him to the ocean. Bakura smirked. He fell back against the towel and closed his eyes, letting the heat lull him to a slumber.

He slept soundly, until four arms lifted him up off the ground. He twisted in their grasp, trying to wrangle out of Tristan's and Joey's catch with sheer will power fruitlessly, until he landed with a splash into four feet of water. He pummeled to the bottom, hitting grainy sand with his back, before reacting. He came up, splashing and gasping, breathing in deep lungful of oxygen, amidst laughter. His cheeks burned and he felt nauseous.

"Fucking idiots!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I believe I already mentioned Japanese currency: the lazy way of converting it (to US dollars) is to take off two decimal places. ¥520 becomes $5.20, which (in my lazy conversion) a pound is worth twice as much as the US dollar (£5=$10). It's not; it's more like 2/3, but oh currency rates… $5.20=£3.36 by the way.
> 
> Bakura's clothing choices for the beach would not be too out of place in Japan. At least no one would question him like they would in where I live. Yes, people will wear bathing suits in Japan, but choosing to cover up your arms/chest isn't unheard of. Also, no one will question him because it's 1998, and in Japan, cutting was almost unheard of so they don't know what they're suspicious of. I did sort of describe the climate of a Japanese beach in the story, with the make shift tens and barbeque meals, however Bakura and the rest are teenagers and I imagine even kids are more relaxed on the beach than family units or adult guests.


	16. The Beach Part 2

Chapter 16: The Beach Part 2

…

When the mad rage seeped from Bakura, he was left with a startling realization. Dripping wet, chest deep in salty ocean water, Bakura grasped at his swimming trunks, suddenly aware of the pockets' lack of security. He fumbled with the pockets, eyes widening as he realized the card was missing, that his blades were missing.

"You fucking idiots!" he screamed, enraged, causing pandemonium with the general public. He felt more than just Joey's and Tristan's eyes on him, but in his panic and haste to find his card, he could care less. His fingers flexed, and he needed to cut, right now, now that he didn't have the comforting presence of the blades that were almost always at his reach within the pocket of whatever he had been wearing.

He plunged down into the water, vainly trying to search the murky ocean water. The sea salt stung at his eyes as he touched his palm against the bottom of the ocean, scraping uselessly at the sand and rock ground. After diving down two more times, eyes burning and sea salt tracks dripping and hardening on his face, Bakura gave up, walking back to the shore, slowly, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. His lips pressed together in a deep scowl.

When he returned to the towel he had been sleeping on, Yugi and Ryou were waiting, both dripping wet with equally apologetic grimaces on their faces. Bakura dropped onto the towel, sitting like Ryou, knees to his chest, arms hanging over his legs effectively burying his ashen face.

He burrowed his feet into the sand granules, pretending the pinpricks and nicks on his feet equaled the relief of a cut. Why had he brought his blades with him, he wondered as he remained in his hunched up position. Fuck. Logically he knew he could acquire more razor blades; he still had the glass shard from the mirror somewhere in his room. He had something, but he couldn't fathom the lack of blades at this immediate moment. He felt a sense of urgency, a need to steal another razor from the closest convenience store, right now.

Every thought shifted to how he could get a hold of a sharp object. He couldn't imagine the next four odd stretch of hours without cutting (not that he left the apartment with any intent to cut), but none of that mattered as his logical reason flushed away into swirling cacophony of ego. He bit the inside of his cheek against the complex emotions, thick and tangible; he wished he had a blade to bleed out all of the shit from today. Hell, he wished he'd never agreed to go in the first place.

"Here," a tan hand halted near his nose. Bakura opened his eyes, not moving from his curled up balled position. His eyebrows arched, and he startled when he realized what Yami was holding. "Is this yours or Ryou's?"

Bakura batted at the card. "Hand it over."

Yami glared. "You're welcome," he said in a nasty tone that Bakura would have replied to with his own scornful comment if he wasn't so desperate for the card and the blades back. He stared intently at the card, which Yami held upside down. Bakura's heart pounded in his chest; he made another attempt to grab the card from Yami's hand, which was a couple inches out of reach.

Yami retracted the card, looking at Bakura quizzically. "What's that from?"

Bakura glanced down at his arm out of habit. Blood pounded in his ears and his legs went numb. He sucked in a breath. Through his water soaked shirt, he could just make out a distinct red line against his inner arm. He pinned his arm to his side, frantically grasping at air with his opposite arm, striving to grab the Change of Heart card.

"None of your business, Pharaoh!" his voice cracked.

Ryou leaned forward to get a better look at what Yami pointed out with his index finger. "When'd you get hurt?"

Vision clearing, Bakura noticed where Yami's eyes were. He glanced a look down at his knee where a tiny white scar stood out, reflecting off the natural light. He could've sagged to his knees in relief. His head started pounding anew as the adrenaline dissipated. "For fuck's sake, I don't know!"

Finally wrapping fingers around his card, Bakura wrenched it from Yami's grasp. He flipped it upright, feeling the familiar weight shift as at least one blade sink to the bottom. He jammed the card back in his swimming trunks pocket, and stalked off.

…

Bakura stomped up the sandy beach, up to the gravel of the parking lot and past a play park designed for toddlers. He spared a fraction of a glance for a young—four at best—boy with an unruly mob of brown hair and his, he assumed, mother, before heading into a thicket of trees that bordered a further back, more remote playground. He settled himself far enough in the tress to not be visible to anyone passing by, but close enough the playground, with less plastic and more older metal and wooden equipment was available for older kids, was within sight.

Bakura slumped against a tree trunk and let his body slide to the ground. He dropped his head into his palms, and returned to his curled-up-in-a-ball position, resting his elbows on his folded knees. He already started the day—hell, the past two weeks—feeling like shit. On top of it, he was soaked from head to foot, and the cold in the shadows of the woodsy area was not helping, but this was the only place he could hide out until his sleeves dried.

He watched a group of eight to ten year old children play on the park equipment. They had driven a few hours from the city of Domino out to the rural country side, and the difference was staggering. The little park his feet dragged himself to on a semi regular basis fifteen minutes from Ryou's apartment was comprised of mostly plastic equipment designed for young children; only the swings were metal, but even those were covered with strips of plastic. Out here, with the seemingly never ending sky and one or two story buildings, the park was much more expansive.

Even in his time as the parasite in Ryou's body, he had never seen a park so, well, rustic looking, so he continued to watch the kids obliviously and ignorantly play in the luxurious park as he tried to stave off the drowning sensation coiling in circles round his head. He had long since propped his chin on his hands to properly watch the children run through wooden tower structures and race across the pebbled ground.

Every so often, he saw a glimpse of Ryou or, oddly enough, Yami wandering in the area they believed he ran off, through the trees in front of him, and his heart raced in his chest. As they alternatively passed over the wooden park and, consequently, the woods, his breathing slowed and he returned to his almost meditative state of watching the children play. His mind shut off, and he did not think for a glorious hour or two.

Finally, as the sun raised higher on the sky, the children, one by one, were called off by various parents, and the group disbanded, leaving Bakura with nothing to halt his thoughts. He inspected his sleeves and drug his card protector out of his pocket. He heaved a sigh, and pulled himself up off the grass and walked back the way he came.

…

Bakura returned after affirming that two of his blades were still in the back of the card protector. He tried to shrug off the worry that someone would find the third, since the card was still dry, so it had not made it into the water, rather fell somewhere in the sand, and pin the sharp object on him. He looked at his arm. The sleeves had dried enough to increase the opacity of the material. The cuts were no longer visible. Satisfied, he walked back to his towel, where the others had also laid out their towels and were unearthing their respective bentos.

He sat next to Ryou, who handed him the bento he had made for him. Bakura shook his head. "Not hungry," he muttered, which was true. After the morning he'd had, his stomach was still knotted. The sun's direct rays were making him queasy. He rested his head on his knees vainly to block out the bright light.

Ryou chewed slowly on the bit of rice ball in his mouth, slowly. After a full minute he swallowed, toying with the rice ball in his hands, passing it back and forth, rather than bringing it back up to his mouth. Bakura noticed the interaction from his vantage point, eyes slit, peaking up over his knees.

Though Yugi continued talking about their plans for the afternoon and Solomon's imminent return to pick them up, Joey and Tristan were staring unabashedly at Ryou. Joey opened his mouth once, seemed to realize Yugi was talking, and then closed it without speaking.

Bakura growled, lifting his head slightly to glare up into Ryou's eyes. "Just eat your fucking lunch," he snapped, lowering his head, but still looking at Ryou.

Ryou's demeanor brightened and he picked up his discarded rice ball, taking a tentative bite out of it.

"That's not helpful," Marik said in response to Bakura's harsh words. Bakura said nothing, just glared harder.

Ryou merely smiled. He finished off the rest of his rice ball.

…

Just as expected, and much to Bakura's relief, Solomon arrived not long after the group had finished their lunches, the empty bentos neatly packed away in their separate bags. Everyone found themselves crammed into the borrowed, western style van for the couple hour long trip back to Domino.

"I'm bored." Joey's whining cut through the silence of the car.

Tristan glanced over, both of his eyebrows raised, his lack of concern evident. "And what would you like us to do about it?" Make him shut up, for starters, Bakura thought as he slouched further in his seat and leaned his head against the window. He pressed his aching head into the cool glass.

Joey twisted himself at his lower back from where he sat in the front seat, opposite of Solomon (his second transparent attempt at driving), and lunged himself at Yugi. Bakura scowled in his seat as Ryou leaned in his direction. Ryou leaned at him, as opposed to on him, much to Bakura's relief. The quiet boy shot Bakura a small smile unbeknownst to the rest of the group. Yugi maneuvered himself, plastering himself to the opposite window, away from Ryou and Bakura.

Joey stared pleadingly into Yugi's eyes. "Yug," he implored with a wide-eyed expression of desperation. Exaggerated desperation, but genuine enough to invoke Yugi's sympathetic pat on Joey's shoulder. "Please. Entertain me."

Yugi shook his head, as Yami leaned forward. The Pharaoh's hand brushed unawares at the edge of Bakura's shoulder length hair. He bristled further against the window as the idiot deigned to speak. "I understand you're bored, but how is Yugi supposed to help?"

Joey shrugged. "I dunno."

At Joey's nonchalance, Bakura snapped back, voicing his thoughts, "Then why don't you silence yourself." Permanently, his mind added.

"That's not called for," Tea chimed in, from her seat behind Ryou, as Joey tempted fate and the short fuse ire's of Bakura and Tristan, and spouted off, "If anyone should shut up, it's you." He jerked a thumb at Tristan. Or Bakura. The action wasn't certain as the two were separated only by the strip of fake leather that Bakura's seat was comprised of.

Who cares, really who the fuck cares!? Bakura seethed as the argument between Joey and Tristan escalated. As expected, Tristan assumed Joey had been insinuating he was at fault and the insults volleyed back and forth over Bakura's slouched head. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him—in part to prevent either of the two idiots from falling into his lap. He scowled deeper at the thought. The cuts on his arms rubbed painfully, sending little jolts that kind of, but not quite, calmed him.

He felt the edge of the plastic card holder rub at his leg through the thin fabric of his swim shorts. A tiny sensation of plastic against his thigh: serving as a reminder of what he would rather be doing. Argh. He curled a hand into a fist as Tristan launched himself over the seat right by Bakura, causing the hairs on his neck to stand up at the unexpected presence.

His fist clamped around black tendrils of hair, and he yanked. Four small chunks, a little over twenty individual strands curled around his fisted fingers and the anger receded enough so he could think. Bakura let the mostly black-with-a-hint-of-his-natural-white-hair-color strands fall slowly to the floor, unnoticed by any of the other occupants. With both hands free, Bakura shoved Tristan's backside, projecting the other boy into the one he was screaming obscenities at.

Tristan, after regaining his equilibrium, shot around. One hand already curled into a fist, Tristan screamed, "What the fuck was that for?"

"He's right. What was that?" Joey chimed in, changing his argument to side with his friend. Bakura swerved to the side and caught Tristan's now uselessly flopping arm. He shoved the sudden onslaught of disgust under his anger. He let the rage that had been bubbling below a thin surface free. Anger drove away the emotions that made him seethe to begin with. Feeling whole, alive, as the rage burned at his nerve endings, he sucked in a deep breath.

Bakura smirked, his response carved against the icy exterior of his stone gaze. Everything is his body froze as the anger rage snapped icy pellets through his nerve endings. After a long, tense for the others, moment, the argument dwindled into silence, and the cold rage trickled away, leaving Bakura numb. He let his body relax and returned to leaning against the window. He still didn't feel well, and the impromptu flight-or-fight reactions sapped whatever strength he had.

…

A couple hours later, Bakura and Ryou entered their apartment, alone, much to Bakura's cheer. The silence Bakura's snarl created only lasted for a quarter hour, until Joey, once again, pleaded with every passenger (sans Bakura) to provide him entertainment. In the last half hour of the trip, Tristan voiced the most vile and equally unappealing comment: "If you're so bored, why don't you play puppy to your master."

And the queasiness had returned full force. Bakura's stomach rolled when Joey dazedly questioned, "Who?" He jerked his head across the length of the vehicle, back and forth. After a moment's thought, his face screwed up in a physical manifestation of Bakura's nausea. Rage quickly replaced the sickened expression. "You talking about Kaiba!" And he lunged over Ryou, who, unprepared, fell against Bakura (he suppressed a groan at the added weight on his tender cut).

Thirty minutes later, Ryou set the bentos on the counter. Observing Bakura's still uneaten bento, he called Bakura over.

"You okay?" he asked, bringing up a hand. Bakura flinched. Ryou paused, and then continued to rest his palm on Bakura's forehead. "Your cheeks are flushed." He placed his hand on his own forehead then returned it to Bakura's. "And you feel warm." He scrutinized Bakura.

Bakura shrugged, stepping from one foot to the other, staring off in the direction of the hallway. He curled his fingers around the card in his pocket. His throat tightened, as Ryou continued to mother him. "I feel fine," he said finally. He quickly dredged up hair thin excuses, anything to force Ryou's attention elsewhere. "It's not like I had time to eat on the ride home."

"I think you have a fever," Ryou said, ignoring his protests, as he led Bakura to the couch by his hand. "Come lay down." Bakura, too hot and miserable to continue fighting him, relented, allowed himself to be lead, and collapsed on the couch.

Ryou picked up the beach bags and set them in the kitchen, returning with a cloth rag and a small bowl of ice water. He kneeled next to Bakura and wrung out the rag into the bowl. The last thing Bakura remembered was a cold cloth being pressed against his forehead and the alleviation of the unbearable humidity as his eyes shut and he drifted off.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Oh the foreshadowing, guys. This chapter and last chapter: remember them. Apparently that's what I do when I can't think of scenes, I sneak in tidbits of future plot lines.


	17. Fever

Chapter 17: Fever

…

The next few days passed in a feverish stupor, as Bakura drifted in and out of consciousness, semi-aware of Ryou's devoted bed side manner. Every so often, he would drag himself off the couch, amidst the gut churning nausea and splitting headache to join Ryou at the table for meals. Which he usually ate a bite or two before returning to the couch, less the nausea bring up more than just bile. Ryou met him after some time, with a cold compress, thermometer and steaming bowl of fish stock.

"I hate this," he groaned into a couch cushion, head buried into the crook of the arm and the seat of the couch.

Ryou kneeled next to him, eyebrows raised, pulling off amused concern effortlessly. He held the bowl of broth near Bakura's face, offering it as a truce.

Bakura's stomach clenched at the salty smell wafting to his nose. He retaliated, further burrowing himself into the couch. "I hate you."

Ryou set the bowl down with a soft clink. "I'll take that as a no then," he said softly. The phone rang, loudly, shrilly reverberating and bouncing in Bakura's skull. He clenched at his ears with his fists. Ryou stood and walked over to the phone, answering, "Hello, Bakura residence."

He twisted the phone cord in his hands as the person on the other end spoke, thankfully, at a low enough octave Bakura could not make out the actual words. "Oh, hi Yugi." He leaned against the wall, looking in Bakura's direction, all the while twisting the cord. "Um no, I'm sorry. Bakura's home sick." A pause as Yugi spoke; Bakura held his aching head in his hands from his face down position on the couch, wishing dearly the conversation would end. Soon.

"Yeah, I hope it goes well? I'll call if anything changes." Ryou said his goodbyes and hung up, returning to kneel next to Bakura.

"At least let me get a temp," he said while grabbing the thermometer. Bakura begrudging rolled over enough to take the thermometer from Ryou and stick it under his tongue. If being granted another chance at life resulted in illness, they—whomever the disembodied spiritual paradigms that may or may not have given him the opportunity—could just end his existence now.

After a moment, the thermometer beeped. Ryou looked at it, reading off the temperature. "You definitely have a fever. It's 38." Bakura groaned, and Ryou looked over Bakura, noticing his choice of apparel for the first time.

"Why don't you change into something cooler," he suggested, already on his feet at the prospect of any doable task.

"I'm fine," Bakura muttered, partially too ill to be bothered with changing, partially acutely aware of the tell-tale scars on his arms. Ryou walked into Bakura's room, regardless, and returned a few moments later with quite possibly the only short sleeved shirt Bakura owned and a pair of shorts.

"Here, all the gopher work is done for you," Ryou said brightly.

Bakura lifted his face from the couch. "I said I was fine."

Ryou folded and unfolded the shirt, mostly to keep himself busy, to feel useful against the illness that wreaked havoc in Bakura's body. "We should get you some summer clothes too, after you feel better." He held the clothes out for Bakura.

Bakura swatted the clothes away, flinging them across the room. "Fuck! I said I was fine. Just let me be, okay!?"

Silence filled the room. Ryou stooped to pick up the discarded clothes. "Fine," he said coolly, walking away from Bakura.

…

A few hours later, not that Bakura was aware of the length of time, he awoke to the icy contrast of Ryou placing a damp washcloth to his forehead. "Sorry," he mumbled, half asleep.

"It's alright," Ryou said, speaking mostly to himself. "I know you don't feel well." He sat down next to Bakura's feet, at the opposite end of the couch, actually sitting upright, rather than slouching into an armchair or curling into a ball.

Bakura, still disoriented from being forced awake, chose to stare openly at Ryou, mind too foggy to supply the correct words to form any inquiry at Ryou's odd mannerisms. As Ryou's own inquisitive gaze washed over him, he found himself the suspect of interrogation.

Ryou placed a hand on his arm, specifically an arm covered in cuts and scars underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Ice might as well been dumped over his head as Bakura reacted instantly and violently. He yanked his arm from Ryou and, as extra protection, folded his arms to his chest.

Ryou's eyes followed the motion of Bakura's reaction and something in his expression shifted, as if he were moments from unearthing King Tut's tomb. "It's over 30 degrees out, you're running a temp, so why are you in long sleeves?"

The light in Ryou's eyes dimmed, and, in that instant, Bakura knew if he waited for the light to return, Ryou's mind would provide the answer. His insides turned to mush and he screamed away the sensation, like lies, dribbling down his back, "I'm cold! I'm sick, and I'm miserable! For fuck's sake, why does it matter!?"

"Because!" Ryou shoved off the couch and towered over Bakura. "You think I can't tell that you're not happy? I know what it's like to not be happy, okay?" His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes watered.

Bakura rolled over to face the inside of the couch, nose against the back cushion. "Happy!? I'm fine!"

Ryou snorted. When he spoke after a moment, his voice was more level, calm. "You just admitted it yourself, Bakura. You aren't happy. Fine is not happy."

Bakura flipped round the couch, forcing himself into a sitting position with the aid of adrenaline pouring through his veins. He noted Ryou had moved to kneel next to him. Bakura's abrupt movement knocked Ryou off kilter, and Bakura automatically reached out with a hand to catch Ryou's grasp. "Fine is fine. It doesn't matter."

Ryou made to grab at Bakura's wrist, while their fingers remained intertwined together. Once Ryou was obviously balanced upright, Bakura wrenched his arm from Ryou's seeking fingers, and resumed his defensive arm crossing. Ryou said, "Yeah, fine. Just about as fine as me."

Any strength the adrenaline had lent him had since drained away, leaving Bakura weak once more, so he allowed the exhaustion to take over him. He melted back into the couch cushion, jerking his head away from Ryou. "Just fuck off," he mumbled.

…

Why was he doing this? The thought remained at the forefront of Bakura's consciousness, which was a grandiose statement, as Bakura was barely conscious. He was officially sick. After weeks of avoiding it, Ryou's cool hand on his aching forehead and the more damning plastic rod of the electric thermometer confirmed it. To top it off, the affection the quiet boy smothered him with surely must be making the symptoms worse.

Well, Ryou hadn't been all that friendly since their fight, Bakura supposed it was… The rest of the evening…he thinks had passed…Ryou continued to dutifully tend to him, bringing him whatever he needed complete with a frosty look and a scowl that reminded him the conversation was not over…

He shrugged that thought into his subconscious, wishing he could just as easily shove away the pounding in his head or the present nausea that assaulted him every time he thought of food or eating, or the constant aching from the cuts on his arm.

Regardless, sick and miserable, he walked to the convenience store about a block from Ryou's apartment with the intent to shoplift…something. Honestly, it didn't matter what Bakura shoved in his pockets, anything, any slight thrill to make the all-encompassing wretchedness of illness lift for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as he trudged the last few feet to the store's entrance, where a sales associate greeted him cheerfully. He nodded out of reflex and immediately regretted it. He snarled at the floor as his head pounded in a new rhythm, a reminder: yes, the headache was in fact, still present.

He had to sneak out while Ryou was sleeping. The boy hardly left him to his own devices, clucking around like a right mother hen, checking in on him. He pursed his lips as he perused the aisles aimlessly. He could always get more blades, especially since one of his was currently resting under layers of sand. That, or washed away by the sea.

He supposed Ryou's action were justified, since he barely made his way off the couch for the first half of the week. Sleeping in his bed—even with the far to snug fitted sheets Ryou had replaced his single cover sheet with—had been a liberating experience. He looked at razors along a row of overpriced personal care products, and ignored the niggling thought that he currently was caged by this fucking cold or flu, or whatever the hell it was.

He had never been this sick in his former life. Never, he swore to himself as he slipped a single razor from the paper binding and shoved the freed object into his jeans pocket, along with his fisted hands—one hand in each pocket. His heart raced (not in a dizzying, sickly way) and a smile tugged at his lips. Everything awful, the fever that plagued his body, thoughts of cutting muddied by images of swirling red, the aloneness he had felt as he hid in the woods by the beach, even yesterdays fight with Ryou's suspicions dissipated.

He was happy. In that moment, as the automated doors closed behind him, silencing the sales associate for once and all, he was able to breathe. And all was well.

Bakura tripped his way back to the apartment, the couple minutes' walk stretching into a half hour as black dots pirouetted across his vision. Which would not have been so debilitating save for the morning sun rising on the distant horizon bleeding into rainbow squiggles that joined into a duet. He weaved dangerously on the, thankfully, empty sidewalk back to the apartment.

It was nothing short of miraculous when he crossed the parking lot, and breezed through the door. The dinging of the elevator intensified the pounding in his head.

Bakura leaned against the wall, curious of Ryou's whereabouts. He contemplated that as he ignored the nausea induced by the floating sensation of the elevator navigating up eight floors. He hadn't planned for the extra time he had needed walking to and from the store due to his illness—in fact he had simply left the apartment at just before dawn, whenever he happened to wake and feeling particularly sorry for himself.

Dinging again: Bakura hissed and crept slowly through the hallway to Ryou's apartment. Ryou, even in the summer, rose ridiculously early. Sometime before noon, Bakura surmised that much, but he wasn't quite sure what time. Though, there had been a few nights where Bakura would be closing his eyes for the night as Ryou was puttering around in his closet for a change of clothes.

His heart pounded in his chest at the realization. He wasn't nearly well enough to pull off any level of subversion. He accepted his fate with a sigh, and opened the apartment door with firm resignation. Really, his thoughts shifted to defensiveness, there was nothing illegal about taking a walk (and it's not like Ryou knew specifically what he had been up to during said walk).

He kicked his shoes off and stepped into the kitchen, prepared for a half-asleep Ryou—reprimand and all.

Silence. The room, and the rest of the apartment, was shrouded in darkness, letting the pink hues of the rising sun filter into the living room windows. Bakura glanced around, taking in Ryou's closed door, his door, which was still arched open slightly from when he had left. Disappointment settled where his heart had been racing.

Whatever. Bakura shook off the feeling, and focused on the most beneficial aspect of Ryou soundly sleeping through his very poor attempt of stealth. At least he didn't have to deal with an irate Ryou this early/late in the day. Bakura slunk off to his own room, and closed the door behind him.

…

There wasn't a proper word to describe how miserable Bakura felt, lying, dying, on the living room couch later in the morning—especially with Ryou acting as a nurse maid with a grudge, complete with cold compresses, steaming bowls of broth, and a surly glower gracing his countenance. He could not remember an instance in his former life where he had been so damn sick. His head hurt; his body ached; his stomach twisted itself into awkward positions making him want to hurl; he couldn't think his way out of his clouded mind, let along any sort of conversation with Ryou.

Hell, he couldn't remember most of the conversations he had with Ryou since Sunday? Bakura decided to halt that train of thought, as trying to figure what day of the week or how much span of time passed was too difficult in his muddled, pathetic state. Instead, he resumed his position on the couch, dying.

He smirked at ceiling as he remembered the razor in his room. At least he could still thieve in any condition. Footsteps marched their way to him and Bakura wiped any traces of smirk from his expression. He rolled his head over at Ryou, who stood in front of the couch with two bowls, one of cold water, and the other, of hot broth. He sat up and weakly grasped the hot broth, refusing to let the dark thoughts show on his face.

He hated this lack of freedom. It had been less than a week (he thought), and he was ready to do something, anything, to escape the melancholia of dependence. He forced a muttered gratitude to Ryou and carefully sipped the broth, lest it return.

This illness needed to end.

…

Bakura woke up sometime late in the afternoon, going by the steadily setting sun. The apartment was lit up with bright orange light, similar to the color of the sky, streaked with vibrant, rose petal pinks. Ryou dozed lightly in the chair, but awoke to the sound of Bakura sitting up. His head still hurt, and he still felt dazed, but he was coherent.

"Why'd Yugi call?" Bakura asked, making conversation more than general curiosity, their most recent fight forgotten, until just after he had spoken aloud to Ryou. He tried to remember how many days ago that phone call was, too.

"He wanted to know if we wanted to set up for the tournament," non-plussed, Ryou said as he handed Bakura the thermometer. Apparently, Ryou was lest actively hostile, for now. Bakura nodded, placing it under his tongue. The dueling tournament, right. That was sometime this month, he knew.

When the thermometer beeped, he handed it back to Ryou, asking, "When is it?"

"This Saturday," Ryou said, staring at the number on the thermometer. He furrowed his brows. "Still high."

"What's today?" Bakura asked. After a moment of Ryou staring blankly at the thermometer, he offered, "I'm feeling better." He was coherent, but not necessarily better, but a low grade fever wasn't much to fuss about. He certainly hadn't in his past life in Egypt.

"Thursday," Ryou said at last, still looking worried with his face all scrunched up. "I'm calling a doctor if you're still running a temperature come Saturday…"

Bakura drug himself off the couch, standing unsteadily, though he didn't elaborate that to Ryou, as if to prove he truly felt less ill. He walked the way to his room on autopilot. Though he felt like shit, sweaty and chilled simultaneously, light headed, like a balloon attached to a string body, legs akin to jelly ready to collapse underneath him, he made it to his room and closed the door.

Everything was shit. Everything just seemed so pointless. Bakura hunched over his knees as he sat on his bed behind the closed door in his room for one of the few times this week—yet he couldn't enjoy the feeling. Sure, he was sick, which contributed to his shit mood, but the physical aches and pains of this…fever, Ryou had termed it, highlighted the melancholy that threatened to suffocate him.

Hell, he was surprised Ryou was speaking to him again; at the same time, the undercurrent of guilt threatened to engulf him. Why was Ryou not angry anymore? Along with being kicked in the ass by this awful illness, he still felt mediocre compared to Ryou. He couldn't even be happy right.

He didn't want to live.

A silence buzzed noisily in his mind long after the thought monopolized him at his core. He clenched his teeth. Of course he wanted to live, he told himself fiercely. It's not that he wanted to die… He kicked at a random pile of clothes, interrupting the flow of his thoughts and smiled at what he had revealed.

He relaxed on the bed after unearthing the Change of Heart card from beneath a pile of clothes. He tipped the card over, spilling the two blades into his palm. He exhaled as he held one blade in his fingers. Even miserable with a fever, he wanted this.

Bakura stared up at the razor blade as he ruminated cutting. On one level, it seemed excessive to harm himself while he already hurt so much. He gnawed at his bottom lip. But, this kind of pain was different, and it wasn't necessarily the pain he appreciated. After the downward shift of his thoughts, cutting, well cutting seemed right.

He rolled up his sleeve, oblivious to the older cuts on his arm as he looked for a new patch of skin to mark up. As he pressed the blade to his arm, he couldn't feel any of his fever related symptoms. Everything tunneled into one single line, which slowly filled with red and spilled over on to his arm.

When the blood clotted a few moments later, he tugged his sleeve down, and returned to the living room, where Ryou shot him a confused look. "Where'd you go?"

He settled back onto the couch as the pounding in his head started anew. Now, with the aching in his head, the perspiration making him fell unclean, the shivers that wracked his body, causing his very bones to ache, the general unpleasantness of being sick, his arm stung under his sleeve. He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Nothing important," he said, answering Ryou's unasked question.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Bakura's temperature is taken in Celsius, because it is Japan. 38C=100.4F, so Ryou's more worried about the length of Bakura's illness than the temperature at this point. 30C is 86F, so it's miserable and muggy.
> 
> I have a proposition for you readers: the next plot arc (aka Fall) is surprisingly bare, so I wonder, is there anything you guys want to see in Insignificant? I might not be able to use every idea (especially major plot points, because those are solid), but small scenes


	18. The Two Who Did Not Attend the Dueling Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> This isn't an absolute rule, but toilets in Japan are made with more plastic pieces than toilet that I'm familiar with—that are porcelain (fake or not).
> 
> Healthcare in Japan is not something I'm familiar with. I know the basics: they have hospitals and doctors, but the little intricacies, I'm sure I'm going to mess them up in the coming chapter. I imaging Japan is like anywhere else: if you have money, you have access to any kind of medical care your heart desires, so Dr. Satou paying a house visit, since he's Kaiba's personal doctor, is within reason.
> 
> I brought up this idea last chapter, but I thought I would ask again: is there anything you want me to write about? Especially because Bakura and Yami are going to become friendlier fairly soon. The fall arc starts in two chapters, and I'm short on ideas, if anyone wants to offer anything, I'll credit you if I use it (consciously).

Bakura awoke on Saturday, the day of Kame Game Shop's dueling tournament, feeling just as awful as he had for the past week. He was back in his own bed at nights, due mostly to will power. Glancing at the cracked door, assured Ryou was not lurking, he rolled up his sleeve. The newest cuts had mostly healed, but the one cut was still inflamed, almost a month later. He considered completely reopening the wound, but the very site of the cut, puffy, oozing with yellow pus, made him nauseated. His stomach didn't need the help rolling like he was at sea.

He quickly rolled his sleeve back down, and forced himself up. He made his way to the living room, where he could hear Ryou in the dining room declining something or someone on the phone.

"Bakura is still sick," he emphasized to the person on the other end. His countenance expressed how guilty he felt about it. Bakura sat down on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table out of habit.

"Yeah, but I think I should get him to a doctor. It's been a week." Ryou turned to the wall, with the mentality of a two year old toddler: if I can't see him; he isn't there.

"Who's on the phone," Bakura called out. His insides squirmed, for once, not from the ever present nausea.

Ryou held out a finger and Bakura bristled. He wasn't a child to reprimand. "What? Well I suppose that could work, but…"

"Ryou. Who is on the phone?" Bakura said, louder this time.

"It's Yugi," Ryou said reluctantly. "It's not important."

Bakura was on his feet, and standing over Ryou, and grabbed the phone out of his hands, before he could react. "Pharaoh's brat," he said into the phone.

"B-Bakura?" Yugi asked, voice grainy over the connection.

Bakura leaned backwards, away from Ryou who attempted to wrestle the phone back, and barked orders to Yugi. "Today's your dueling thing, right?" When Yugi answered with an affirmative, Bakura continued, "And you want Ryou's help?" Another "Yes." Bakura took an over large step away from Ryou. "I presume you have a plan for this?"

Yugi chimed in agreement again, explaining his plan fully to Bakura. His stomach dropped at the already laid out plan of attack. Swallowing his pride and the acid that rose in his throat at the thought of Yugi's brilliant idea, Bakura replied, "He'll be there." And he hung up the phone, allowing no time for disagreement from Ryou.

Bakura returned to the couch, gently sitting down, trying to push down the general feelings of sickness away. "Yugi wants you there at noon," he said to Ryou.

"Bakura, you're still sick!" Ryou protested. He leaned in, peering into Bakura's eyes. "You are; you're pale." He placed a hand to Bakura's cheek, whom flinched back at the couch. "And clammy, and you're sweating!"

"It's four hours. I'll be fine for four hours," Bakura said, exasperated. "Besides, Yugi has that covered too." He grimaced, crossing his arms over his body like a shield against the future unpleasantness.

Ryou sat back, and chewed his thumbnail thoughtfully. "He mentioned that to me. I figured you wouldn't be ok with it."

"I'm not," Bakura growled. "Just go."

Ryou caved, "Are you—"

"Yes."

…

Ryou slipped on his tennis shoes, just as the knocking on the door started. Bakura's stomach clenched, and he grimaced into a couch cushion. Ryou tossed him a concerned look, which Bakura waved a hand impatiently in reply.

Ryou answered the door to Yami. He again looked back at Bakura, then met Yami's gaze. "Will you guys be okay?"

Yami smiled, placing his shoes on a shelf and stepping up into the apartment. "We'll be fine. Go on." He gestured to the cracked door. "Yugi needs your support." Ryou sighed, but did finally leave, making sure to inform both of them he had his mobile and to ring for any reason.

Bakura lifted his head long enough to give Ryou a dirty look as the apartment door clicked shut. He lowered his head, fully planning to sleep for the next four hours Yami played babysitter.

Yami sat on the chair, staring at Bakura's lounging form. "You look like shit," he observed.

"I feel like shit too," Bakura spit, sarcasm dripping off every word.

Yami tapped his fingers on the end of the armrest, further infuriating Bakura—not that Yami's presence wasn't enraging enough. "No wonder Ryou insisted on staying home." He laughed, not meanly, but it still made Bakura's blood boil. "You look like a little lost puppy."

"Fuck off," Bakura half moaned. In his state of despair, he missed the concern lacing Yami's eyes.

Yami paused his repetitive finger tapping. "Why did you insist Ryou—"

Bakura cut him off, forcing himself into a cross legged sitting position. "I didn't insist." He glared, "Besides, he would've whined for days…"

Yami smiled. "No he wouldn't've. That was nice of you, you know."

Bakura refused to meet Yami's gaze, and stared at the hallway.

…

"So," Yami's voice broke the silence between the two. Bakura lifted his face from the couch cushion, mood quickly turning homicidal at the intrusion of his fevered thoughts and near comatose state.

"So, what?" Bakura ground out, irritated.

Yami crossed his legs and glanced off to the distance. Bakura followed his look to the hallways where the three bedrooms separated. "It's probably better to talk about something since we're just sitting here."

Bakura suppressed a snort. Sitting quietly with the Pharaoh was bad enough in his opinion, thanks. Besides, talking with Yami usually launched into full blown physical violence, or Yami pandering to him with simpering condescendence. His stomach turned, not from nausea for once in the past week, and he welcomed the small reprieve, until his stomach clenched in queasiness less than a minute later as Yami started in on some mundane talk which held as equal importance as discussing the weather.

He ignored it even as some of Yami's monologue seeped through the layers of nausea and indifference. "School starts back up soon."

No shit. "I'm looking forward to it." The statement would have been considered a positive thought had it not been saturated by sarcasm and practically wrenched from Bakura's teeth.

"You don't need to be so rude," Yami sniffed and missed the grimace as Bakura's stomach reminded him that he was, indeed, still sick.

"Like I'm so thrilled to go back to dealing with Kobayashi every day," Bakura retorted with a reference to their homeroom teacher, male, barely out of university and obviously overcompensating for other things lacking in his life.

Yami frowned. "He's not that bad. If you didn't go out of your way to make him miserable—"

"Me? I?" Bakura asked, incredulous, voice rising with each clipped word. "He's the one who has it out for me!"

Yami crossed his arms, glancing up at the ceiling. Bakura glared at his lap, aware of exactly what the portion of ceiling Yami stared at looked like—boring, bland, and off white; it looked solid until you really examined it, then tiny groove where the paintbrush had once circled the surface appeared.

"Please," he said. That one word, one syllable echoed in Bakura's conscious. Arrogant, placating, phony: just like the Pharaoh—he who is so perfect, so righteous, so—ugh! Bakura seethed.

"I haven't done anything to him!" Bakura exclaimed.

Yami leveled his gaze so his eyes bore into Bakura's, an expression that blatantly revealed Bakura's supposed lying remained affixed to his lips, which frowned disapprovingly. I'm right; you're wrong. Nya nya nya.

"I didn't," Bakura insisted.

Yami decided, finally, to reply verbally, "Then why do you persist on wearing the wrong uniform just to smite him?"

Bakura wanted to shout it wasn't his fault, but that would likely go over as well as trying to explain it to Kobayashi last month had. His lips quirked up in humor at that memory, and Bakura reacted in the same way he had with their teacher: by saying nothing at all.

Yami saw the small grin pasted on Bakura's face and took it to mean Bakura was pleased by his actions. "See?" he asked as he gestured to Bakura, who immediately wiped the grin from existence, scowling at his 'sitter'. "You're going out of your way to make the guy miserable.

I am not! I'm the one who is miserable! Bakura sat in stone silence as Yami continued to press into him, telling him all about his every iniquity. The constant ache in his head silenced as Yami rattled on freaking epithets on his wrongdoings, his wickedness…

"…If you just tried to be more amicable…" Bakura curled his hands into fists from where he sat on the couch, glaring back at the Pharaoh.

"…You have to give respect if you want him to leave you alone, but you're always playing the blame card..." It took all his determination to prevent his lips from curling into a sneer as Yami's monologue returned to the infamous Kobayashi.

"…No one likes you, but you don't try…" His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and his hand shook. The expanse of skin stretched taut over his knuckles faded to white as he fisted his hands against the dizzying feeling of wanting to cut.

"…Well, you probably already messed up any opportunity you had. I mean, how many chances should you get…" The ceiling and floor separated in his mind's eye and the space in between flooded with images of past cutting session, desire projected in flashes of wrists littered with rows and rows of fresh cuts, of blood dribbling down to meet the floor.

Heat bloomed in a tight knot in his chest. "Excuse me," Bakura forced out.

Yami uncrossed and re-crossed his legs as he leaned further back in the armchair. A grin curved upwards with a smugness that made the warmth unfurl from the nest in his chest and stream outwards, down his arms. "It doesn't matter. There isn't anything you can do about it."

Then I might as well get out now, Bakura thought. He physically had to bite his tongue to keep that thought safely tucked into his mind. He vividly remembered the conversations he'd had with Ryou in early July.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. No one will do anything about it," Ryou had scoffed when Bakura questioned exactly what would happen if he let slip Ryou's eccentric eating behaviors. "They'll just call it a diet-gone-wrong." He had smirked, and concluded—unknowingly answering Bakura's true question—with, "It's not like cutting your wrists or something else suicidal." Another smirk and as an afterthought, "Besides boys don't have eating disorders."

A few weeks and a month ago that conversation had taken place. Well, Bakura remembered, it hadn't exactly been a conversation so much as Bakura faux interrogating Ryou to find out what rights idiot Kobayashi had. After that explanation, Ryou's eyes had pin pointed on him, and Bakura found himself being interrogated.

He smiled wistfully at the change in roles. Now Ryou was the one concerned about him. He had ended that conversation with an abrupt dismissal: "Tch, just seeing where your fucked up eating will lead you."

Yami gazed at Bakura as the other seemed to drown in his thoughts. As he was swallowed more and more under, Bakura's eyes deadened. He pushed himself forward in the armchair and called out to him, "Bakura? Hey Bakura?"

After a moment Bakura blinked back to reality. "It doesn't matter, Pharaoh."

"Obviously it did. What happened?" he asked, actually focusing on Bakura for the first time since he arrived.

Bakura shrugged against the lingering feelings of despair. Everything was shit; life was not fair and he would never win against Pharaoh. Why bother: the thought swirled dangerously in and out of his thoughts, and he reined it back in before he voiced it aloud.

The flashback to last month reminded him that, as a minor, he was subject to inquiry if he made mention of harming himself, and his thoughts were probably self loathing enough to be considered suicidal. To top it off, like fuck he would admit anything to the self-righteous Pharaoh. It was miserable enough to be babysat by him whilst dealing with the physical awfulness of illness.

Yami rested his elbows on his uncrossed knees as he leaned forward, peering into Bakura's eyes. "Did I say something…?" He trailed off, and the concerned softness in his face hardened as if he realized he was talking to Bakura rather than his naïve little host. Partner. Whatever the Pharaoh and his bitch called themselves. The lines of his face remained harsh as he asked a new, less apprehension-fueled question.

"Regardless, you really do need to be more appreciative…" Bakura drowned out the stupidity that threatened to make him feel more shitty and flopped over and resumed lying face down on the couch.

…

An hour of silence passed. Yami started tapping his fingers again, and Bakura gritted his teeth, the rhythmic noise awakening him from the farce of a nap his unintentional dozing off had been. He tossed the remote to Yami, as the illness reared its ugly head. Great.

"Oh, thank you." Yami turned on the television to some loud cooking show. Bakura shuddered as the sounds of banging pots and pans ricocheted in his head, sending aches down his body. Yami stared at the television. Attempting to glean information from Bakura (and likely silently apologize for his accusations earlier), he commented, "It really was considerate of you to force Ryou into leaving."

"Leave me alone," Bakura muttered, refusing to act on the pain radiating in his skull less the Pharaoh caught on to his weaknesses.

Silence descended again, before Bakura threw himself at the mercy of the gods, querying, "Why aren't you participating? Too little recognition?" He smirked.

Yami looked away, uncomfortable. "I wanted to give Yugi a chance to shine." He scratched his bare arm. Bakura noticed he stopped before causing any damage. Something heavy dropped in his stomach.

"How noble," he sneered.

Yami scowled, quickly back pedaling. "It's none of your business anyway." He leaned forward, and ugly smirk on his face. "I'm doing you a favor."

Bakura heard the silent: "so you better be behaved" in Yami's condescending words. His stomach curdled. And the fight, round two opened. He shifted on the couch, lying on his side to alleviate the discomfort. Bakura pressed a hand to his nose, even the leftover aroma of Ryou's breakfast made bile creep up his throat.

Yami peered at Bakura. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, before giving up the battle, and running to the toilet by the kitchen, a hand clamped over his mouth. Yami followed at his heels, as he slumped to the floor in front of the toilet, and was violently ill.

…

Bakura rested his pounding head against the cool plastic toilet rim after the heaving gasps quelled. After not eating much for the past week, his throat burned from acid and his stomach cramped as it had nothing to reject. He wiped a fleck of bile from his lips with his sleeve.

Yami touched his arm; Bakura hissed at the pain that flared up at the action. He jerked his arm away, head aching and body trembling. "I'll do it myself," he snapped. Grasping a roll of toilet paper, he cleaned off his face and tossed the used bits into the toilet, flushing as he stood on shaky legs.

He walked away from Yami, who called out after him, and headed to his room. He closed and locked his door, slumping against his bed, letting the liquid in his smarting eyes dribble over. He cried, silently gasping, and feeling all the more ashamed as tears continued to come. He curled into a ball, only half hearing the conversation Yami had outside his closed door. He pressed a hand to his arm, hissing at the unexpected warmth.

…

Yami glanced at Bakura's closed door as he waited for Ryou to pick up his mobile. He had the phone cord stretched out to its limit, standing at the edge of the hallway as he tried to listen to what Bakura was doing. After he locked himself in his room, Yami tried to coax him out to no avail nor scathing retort. Ten minutes passed before Yami, glancing at the time on the clock on the television screen, dialed Ryou's mobile number.

Ryou answered after a couple rings, breathing, "What's wrong?"

Yami squirmed, shifting his weight from on foot to the other as he spoke into the receiver. "He was sick, and now…" He trailed off, waving a hand at Bakura's door as if Ryou could see where he was motioning.

"I'm coming home," Ryou said immediately. Over the phone, Yami could hear Ryou apologizing to whomever he was standing with, possibly Tristan and Tea, and saying his goodbyes. "I'll call Kaiba on my way."

Yami agreed. The plan had been to utilize Kaiba's personal doctor, for ease of treatment without messy paperwork trying to keep Bakura's identity accurate after Ryou returned from the dueling tournament. Yami deduced he was bumping up the visit.

…

Yami slammed a fist on the closed and locked door to Bakura's room, calling out, "Bakura!" He had just hung up with Ryou, returned the phone to the dining room and released his tight grip on the cord. Now, Yami walked back to the hallway, right outside Bakura's bedroom door and started banging.

Silence.

Yami pounded on the door again, this time with more urgency and franticness as he yelled Bakura's name through the door. There was a definite sound of movement and Yami was certain he heard a muttered expletive or two, before Bakura's voice, hoarse and raspy, drifted into the hallway, "For fuck's sake, what?"

Yami frowned, but chose to convey the information from Ryou regardless. "I called Ryou. He's going to call the doctor on his way," he trailed off, leaving the implication that Bakura should make himself presentable silent.

"Good," an acerbic reply was all Yami got.

He cupped an ear and pressed himself against the solid wood door trying to hear the sounds behind. When the minute sounds of choking and suppressed gasping met his ears, he stepped back, knocking on the door once again. "Bakura…Can I come in?"

Yami had one hand resting lightly on the door and he shifted his body weight so he leaned slightly towards the wood, so when the door was violently unlocked and ripped open in one motion, he nearly went flying headfirst into Bakura's room. His attention averted to keeping himself upright, and he missed the small smirk gracing Bakura's lips or the moisture drying on his cheeks.

"What?" Bakura asked. He turned his head away before Yami had a chance to adjust to his loss of balance. "You don't need to worry. I'll be ready for Kaiba's bitch of a doctor."

Yami tried and failed to meet Bakura's gaze as the other kept his head pointedly affixed to the wall above his bed. "His name is Dr. Satou," he offered. "And he'll be coming here."

…


	19. Dr. Satou

Bakura dropped his head into his palms, as he slouched over on his bed. The silence of the room mocked him as Yami's footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors as the former pharaoh slinked off after yet another failed attempt to coerce Bakura into opening his bedroom door.

Fuck me, he thought angrily, even as hot liquid coated his hands as he scratched at his eyebrows. He hated himself for the uncharacteristic display of emotion, and it only further increased the tears leaking from his eyes.

He choked down a breath, resolution halting the awful fit, just as Yami returned moments later. A pause as the idiot outside his door sucked in a deep breath as if to brace himself for the next battle of wills. "Bakura?"

"What?" he drawled in a long, resigned sigh. "What more could you add to this shitty day?" He ignored the accompanying sigh from the other side of the door at his melodramatic remark. It wasn't exaggerated if the statement described the situation perfectly. Hell, most days he felt that way—unless, of course, he physically harmed himself.

Nauseous, head pounding, cut inflamed on his arm, Bakura allowed himself to succumb to the ever present misery. Yami banged a fist into the closed door. Leaning his head against his fist, Yami propped himself so his nose nearly touched the wood. He narrowed his eyes, and the notches in the wood blurred. "Look, Ryou will be home soon, then the doctor will be here. Why don't you just come out?" Disdain dripped from Yami's words.

Bakura heard the silence where he would have filled with: for fuck's sake. Anger restoring some of the strength he had vomited away and rage burned away the god awful emotion, Bakura jerked himself upright so he was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I told you before," irritation bubbled over as he was forced to repeat himself, "fuck off and I'll be ready when he gets here. Fuck!"

As Yami's footsteps plodded away, down the hall, thankfully and finally, Bakura's rigid posture relaxed into a slouch. He let sections of hair fall in his face and cling to his wet cheeks.

…

Dr. Satou arrived, not long after Ryou, knocking on the apartment door. He was a tall, slim, older man with graying hair and glasses. He smiled genially at Yami and Ryou, though never actually meeting their gazes, very much unlike Yami's perception of a doctor who worked with Kaiba. In fact, he was reminded somewhat of a humbler version of Solomon's friend, Arthur Hawkins.

"Hello, my name's Dr. Satou." He bowed to Ryou, then Yami. Yami murmured a response, nodding his head in a bow.

Ryou led Dr. Satou to Bakura's room, pausing outside the door. "I should wake him first," he explained. Mumbling more to himself, "He's not going to be happy."

Dr. Satou shifted the bag in his hands. "Most sick people aren't." He stepped back, standing in the edge of the doorway, to allow Ryou and Bakura a moment of privacy.

"Hey, Bakura," Ryou said as he patted Bakura's back, not looking near his face where tears still stained his face. Bakura groaned, flopping an arm against the comforter. "There's a doctor here to look at you."

When Bakura sat up, Ryou offered, "Why don't you go get cleaned up and he'll see you?"

Bakura glowered, but his stomach still gurgled sickly, so he just nodded, and did as Ryou suggested, stepping past a non descript older man (likely the doctor Ryou and Yami mentioned) on his way to the bathroom. He washed his face and hands, and returned to his room, where Ryou had cleared off his desk and the accompanying chair.

…

Dr. Satou bowed to Bakura, entering the room after him. Ryou sat on the bed next to Bakura as Dr. Satou began questioning Bakura from his desk chair.

"I heard you've been sick for a little over a week," he said, jotting down an affirmation on his clipboard when Bakura shrugged, and at Ryou's reproach, elaborated with, "Longer. I think three weeks?"

Ryou's gaze met him, a pair of upraised eyebrows and a frown. "Three weeks? Why didn't you say anything?! That's practically all break!"

Dr. Satou lifted his eyes from his clipboard, silencing Ryou's worried tirade. "That could be the sign of something more serious. The length of time is especially concerning. Have you had any other symptoms, besides flu like?" He ticked off items with his fingers as he offered examples of flu symptoms. "Nausea and vomiting, body aches and weakness, a temperature."

Bakura nodded, and rubbed at his arm. He bit back a grimace at the pain radiating from one cut. Dr. Satou narrowed his eyes as he witnessed his patient rubbing his covered arms. He looked at Ryou, and spoke to him, "I think we might get further, if we were alone. If you don't mind?" The words came out in a chaotic tumble that even Bakura recognized as not professional.

If his thoughts weren't firing off rapidly in fear of his cutting being found out, he might've smirked as Ryou jumped up. "Of course!" He lingered at the doorway. "Would you like the door closed?"

Dr. Satou nodded, distracted, as his right hand halted, and the pen enclosed within his grip stopped scratching against paper. "Er, yes. Thank you."

Bakura bristled when Dr. Satou's gaze returned to him. A dead weight jammed up his throat, and without being fully cognizant, he knew Dr. Satou at least suspected. He leaned against the wall, pressing his arms to himself.

"I thought you would prefer the physical tests done in private," Dr. Satou explained. His gaze had since returned to his clipboard, as if following commands to avoid gazing directly into another's eyes. Bakura noted he hadn't truly met Ryou's gaze, even as he awkwardly asked him to leave. Maybe that's how the doctor worked well with Kaiba; he never felt the rich bastard's venomous glowers of hatred.

The exam went relatively smoothly from there. Dr. Satou retrieved his medical bag from where he had set it near the door and proceeded to remove the standard set of tools. Bakura nearly sagged against his bed in relief. So Dr. Satou wasn't as observant as he thought. Besides, Bakura reasoned, the guy's so old, be might be completely blind. He remembered this from GP visits Ryou had every year. First, went on the rubber gloves, and the exam began.

"I need to check your heart and the status of your internal organs," Dr. Satou stated as he positioned the stethoscope evenly around his neck. Bakura sat up straightly, repressing the urge to flinch, as Dr. Satou's hands crept up his shirt. Between his memories from Ryou and Dr. Satou's continued explanations as he checked Bakura's front and back with the cold metal of the stethoscope, this was part of a typical physical. Or, in his case, a routine checking to diagnose his illness.

And a gateway to providing prescription pills to annihilate this flu. Bakura remained stoically silent, shrugging only when Dr. Satou addressed him. He silently allowed the older man to prod his mouth and ears with an otoscope.

Blood pressure, please," Dr. Satou said as he brandished an analog blood pressure machine. "If you could lift your sleeve, please?" He asked pleasantly as he glanced at Bakura's sleeve covered arm. "Or, if it would be easier, you can remove the garment entirely."

Yeah. Fuck, no. "I'm cold," Bakura said tersely. He glared down at his lap as Dr. Satou's eyes bore into the fabric of his sleeve as he twisted it inside his clenched fist.

After a moment, Dr. Satou spoke in a light voice, apparently unconcerned why his patient was clad in long sleeves during the last week of the hottest month, "That's fine. I'll take it over your sleeve, then."

Bakura nearly jumped when he wrapped the upper portion of his arm with the blood pressure cuff. Not acknowledging his reactions, Dr. Satou continued to speak, "It won't be a perfect reading, but I should still get a good idea." Bakura attempted to regulate his breaths as the aneroid gauge rotated round, and reversed. The cuff dug into his arm, similarly to the constricting in his chest. He beat down the emotion. Apparently money doesn't buy perfection, and it's not like Kaiba's doctor noticed his arms yet anyway.

That, or he was easily duped. "A little high, but that could be the fabric of your shirt or just nerves." He smiled pleasantly at the end of his explanation. Bakura shrugged. Sure, normal fear-of-doctor nerves, not fear-of-getting-found-out-and-locked-up nerves.

He relaxed a fraction when Dr. Satou returned the medial paraphernalia to his bag. Now, he would announce Bakura's diagnosis, write a script, and problem solved.

When Dr. Satou turned around after zipping shut his bag, his face had hardened. The polite façade froze to professional decorum, and Bakura could not remember an instance in Ryou's memories that a doctor had gazed at him with such an intense look.

"Well, everything points to you being a very ill young man," he said as an opening. "Normally, I would cite you having the flu, but the prolonged state of it concerns me." His eyes flashed, and Bakura's heart raced in his chest. "I do have my suspicions…"

"Why don't we make this pleasant for both of us, and you roll up your sleeve, please," Dr. Satou said in the same tone he had been using for the entire visit, a polite but neutral pitch.

Bakura held his arms tighter to himself, and Dr. Satou sighed. "Working for the Kaiba family, nothing can surprise me now," he said as a bribing chip.

Bakura snarled, anger fueling his actions. "Are you telling me rich boy does this?" He shoved up the sleeve on his non dominant arm revealing the scars and the pus-filled, inflamed cut.

"Well, not that I'm aware," Dr. Satou said without missing a beat. He stroked his short clipped beard. "However this explains your long run flu."

Bakura, startled, let Dr. Satou grab his arm to inspect the cut. "Excuse me?"

"This cut," Dr. Satou said as he pressed a gloved finger at the edges of the cut, "it's infected."

Bakura sat in silence, even as the man momentarily excused himself to dig through his bag. When he returned to the bed, a bottle of sterile water in hand, Bakura stoically gazed past the doctor and his ministrations. He cleansed the cut as he spoke, "It's a relatively easy fix, but until it's fixed, it will make you sick as a dog. Worse if you don't get rid of the infection." Bakura repressed a flinch as Dr. Satou flushed the wound with water repeatedly.

Bakura watched the man clean out the puss and use a cotton ball to dab the cut with peroxide, before bandaging his arm. "I'm going to prescribe antibiotic for the infection, but if you keep your cuts clean, this shouldn't affect you again."

Bakura nodded. Dr. Satou sat back, and gestured to Bakura's other, covered, arm. "Will you please roll up your other sleeve?" Bakura quirked an eyebrow, and did as asked. "I thought so," Dr. Satou said as Bakura revealed another arm filled with mostly healed red and white scars. Unlike the other arm, Dr. Satou skipped over irrigating any of the cuts, and proceeded to clean the open wounds and wrap the area in gauze.

"I'll give the script to your brother," he said in reference to Ryou, confusing the muddled relationship, as Bakura yanked his sleeves down the moment Dr. Satou finished.

Bakura's heart raced to his throat. "You won't tell him about?" his voice trailed off to silence as he tried to speak the damning words.

Dr. Satou gazed at his nose (now that his accusations ended, he resumed not looking directly at Bakura) with an odd expression, a cross between empathy and stern disapproval. "I will not, but I think you should seek out help for this. The problem will only manifest." He handed one of his business cards from his lab coat pocket to Bakura.

Bakura let the words wash over him, as Dr. Satou crossed the room with his packed up equipment and script for Ryou. He glanced down at the card in his hand. It had Dr. Satou's personal name and office phone number and address along the bottom.

"Feel free to contact my office if you need a referral," were Dr. Satou's parting words. His hand lingered on the door knob, and Bakura caught sight of several almost faded white scars on Dr. Satou's wrist as his sleeve caught on the wood frame.

The door closed, leaving Bakura to his racing thoughts. What the fuck? He blinked quickly, trying to rewind the past minute or so. He swore he had seen the tell-tale flash of white scars, much like his own, especially the older scars from last April. He hadn't thought anyone else had done this. Of course, he knew there were others. Someone else, at least, must cut themselves, he knew—especially since their psychology class late last term had spent ten minutes in class going over self mutilation.

He remembered the ten long minutes of sweat dripping down his back. He expected everyone's gaze to narrow in on him and his long sleeves, but even his most studious peers were staring out the windows longingly at the July sun. Even Ryou had been so entrenched by his eating disorder back then, he hadn't been paying most lectures any attention.

He rolled up his sleeves to gaze at the older scars on his arms. He flicked at the gauze neatly wrapped on his arms. Through his baggy tee shirt, he was unable to make out the gauze, thankfully. He considered Dr. Satou's comment on keeping the cuts clean. It hadn't taken that long to clean out even the puffy, infected cut from three weeks ago. He supposed, he ought to include cleaning his cuts after a round as sort of a routine.

The nasty thought: so you aren't going to stop then niggled at him, and Bakura collapsed against the bed, feeling something besides ill. He tugged his sleeves over his hands, trying to process the last hour, and waited for his heart rate to slow.

…

Ryou bit at his thumb nail when, after almost a full hour passed, Dr. Satou left Bakura's room, closing the door behind him. An action that reminded him he wasn't privy to every aspect of Bakura's life. He straightened his sleeves and readjusted his bag before he noticed Ryou standing at the edge of the living room.

"Er, what's wrong with him?" Ryou nearly squeaked when Dr. Satou looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"He's fine. Just a touch of summer flu." He handed Ryou the script for antibiotics. "Bacterial. He should fell better within a couple days once he starts the medication."

"Thank you," Ryou said with a bow.

Dr. Satou crossed the living room, into the kitchen and slipped on his shoes as he entered the genkan. "Keep an eye on him. Seems he doesn't like to let other people in."

"Um…Right?" Thinking about Bakura's admission on the length of his illness, Ryou missed Dr. Satou's lips thinning in bitter remembrance.

After the doctor exited the apartment, Ryou guided himself to his favorite chair in the living room. He bent his legs underneath him, and leaned forward, elbows resting upon knees, and chin pressed into his palms. Three weeks. Bakura had been ill for almost the entirety of holiday break, and he hadn't noticed.

Dr. Satou's warning circled his thoughts, coiling tightly as guilt in his stomach. "Keep an eye on him." Sure, he had been distracted with his eating disorder, too hungry and ill to look past himself, but after that… If Bakura was hiding something as overt as the flu from him… Was Kaiba's family doctor trying to alert him of something?

His ruminations on the unpleasant thoughts dissipated as the home phone rang shrilly. He uncurled himself, walked over to the phone, and greeted the person on the other end with mechanical motions.

"Hello, Bakura residence?"

A pause from the other end, then, "Hey Ryou."

"Yugi." His voice filled with warmth as his friend's cheerful tone washed away the guilty thoughts.

"Um, you see," Yugi's laughed down the line as the distinct voice of Yami intruded into the conversation.

"Just want to know if he's okay, is all," Yami's voice thinned with a touch of petulance. Ryou smirked, covering his twitching lips in reflex.

"Tell Yami, Bakura is fine. I'm going to fill his prescription shortly," Ryou assured Yami via Yugi, who relayed the message back by shouting at the other without the nicety of covering the mouthpiece.

Ryou winced. "Yeah, I'm just going to head up that way. I don't think it matters as long as it's a family store," Ryou answered Yugi's where's how's and when's.

"I can run and get it," Yami offered from the background.

Ryou felt an eyebrow quirk without his volition. "Um, that's not really necessary."

"Actually," Yugi said, speaking over the confused Ryou and overly helpful Yami, "You can't get it anyway, since Ryou has the script."

"Oh." A silence from Yami, then he spoke in a nonchalant manner. Ryou could practically envision his arm gesturing madly. "Thought I'd offer."

"Um, thank you, regardless," Ryou said politely. He let the phone conversation dwindle into pleasantries, and hung up the receiver with a click. Well, he thought. That was strange. He grasped Bakura's prescription and called out his departure to Bakura, before slipping on tennis shoes and making his way cross-town to the closest pharmacy, incidentally near the Mouto's, to fill Bakura's prescription.  
…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Health care in Japan. I'm still not very knowledgeable on the subject, so any mistakes I made are hopefully not glaringly obvious. Please correct me if I am wrong, but I can't promise mistakes will be fixed right away, because I' so freaking sick of this chapter.
> 
> In Japan there are two types of pharmacies: family run ones, where you can pick up medication from with a prescription authorized by a doctor, and convenience store like brands—like a CVS or Rite Aid, but you cannot get prescription medications at these. The family run pharmacies are usually located near doctors' offices, so I'm pretending the Mouto's live near a doctor.
> 
> In regards to the house call, well it's fanfiction, and Kaiba is rich, so he can probably afford that luxury. I'm fairly certain Japanese minors are subject to the same privacy (or lack thereof) laws like in the USA, so I'm not saying Dr. Satou's lack of informing Bakura's guardian (Solomon Mouto) is exactly legal or professional, but he's not getting found out quite yet…


	20. September 2, 1998 Part 1

Chapter 20: September 2, 1998 Part 1

…

The dueling tournament, which Yugi won hands down, and Bakura's illness marked the end of summer break. By the time the new term rolled around, Bakura had taken his medication for a week, and was no longer plagued by infection. He never breathed a word to Ryou about the true reason behind his illness, and it was written off as some weird summer bug. He sat down, in accordance with the new seating chart, in his new seat near the large bay window, close to the middle of the room.

He smirked aware this was prime seating for languid students, where he could effortlessly pull off motivated and still fuck off during classes. Ryou looked at him, with an odd expression, pinched eyebrows and a frown upon his face, from across the room. Bakura pretended not to notice the look he had been receiving from Ryou since the doctor's visit. The memory of the perfectly straight white lines on the doctor's wrist only encouraged Bakura to try cutting in more parallel lines for future aesthetics.

He rubbed at his arms at that thought. He continued to bring the card with him, currently tucked into his uniform pants pocket. There was still ten minutes before homeroom ended; he could slip off to the toilets… He clenched his hands into fists at the thought. Over the course of the past week, as felt progressively better, he found himself cutting just because. Boredom steadfastly became a perfectly acceptable reason to cut his arms.

He snaked a finger up the cuff of his new winter uniform sleeve (most of the class whined about the switchover, demanding to be allowed to wear the summer uniform due to the inclimate weather) and rubbed along the cuts. He relaxed as he felt the ridges and peaks.

"Bakura," a low voice drew Bakura out of his thoughts and calm reverie. He glanced over at the voice to meet the deep purple of Yami's irises. He jerked his hand out of his sleeve, placing his more injured arm on his lap.

"What?" Bakura asked, preferring to stick with monosyllables.

Yami crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "Are you feeling better?" he asked after a long moment of sulking.

"Fine." Bakura glared down at his desk, mind flashing with past recollections of harming himself, back to the very first time he cut into Ryou's arm during Battle City. Bakura raised an eyebrow at Yami, expressing his irritation with the new seating order as Yami sat in the seat next to his. Bakura's lips curled at the thought of sitting next to Yami for the next trimester, until the New Year.

The class quieted, standing up to bow, as the homeroom teacher, Kobayashi, walked in, and school was back in session, officially, on Tuesday, September second.

…

Lunch was outside in the courtyard where Bakura sat at the very edge of the group eating the bento Ryou prepared for him in silence as Ryou, Tea, Yugi, Yami, Marik, Joey, and Tristan conversed back and forth. He ignored the prickling feelings of loneliness and instead observed Ryou eating the majority of his own lunch. The only other positive was lunch signified the halfway point in the day. Directly after was an elective.

Bakura reigned in a snort at the term elective as the teacher, Minami, he thinks she introduced herself as, a young female not much older physically than he, explained the nature of the class. "If you think this will be an easy class, you will be in for a surprise…" Again, Bakura resisted the urge to snort at the young teacher's claims. This class, this elective that was in fact compulsory, was still, just, an art class. As if drawing pretty pictures or painting landscapes could ever be anything of worth. Judging from his classmates' expressions (including Joey and Tristan) of disbelief, Bakura safely assumed that was the general consensus. Ryou and Yugi were far too polite to express otherwise, and Marik was happy with any class that didn't involve ancient teachers. Most of the class agreed with Bakura's sentiment as the teacher prattled on the benefits of the arts.

He couldn't imagine when anything related to art would ever affect his life. Bakura tuned out most of the teacher's speech, only picking up the skeleton of information: first project, a week or so of still life work, followed by the second project which she would explain the next week. "I have high hopes for the project and am looking forward to working with you all on it!"

The optimism that dripped off of her made Bakura want to shirk away. He heard Tristan mutter something along the lines of "fresh out of college" to Joey a few rows ahead of him. Kobayashi was an idiot for pairing those two together, Bakura thought as their mutterings increased in pitch to where Bakura could hear the insults of "fresh meat" and "looking nice in that" or general remarks on the lack of age difference quite clearly, so surely Minami could as well.

"Alright class, as you can see I set up four still life displays, one in each corner of the room. Imagine there are four equal sections in the room. Your section is responsible to draw that still life. The back corner will draw the still life in the back right corner…" This time, Bakura did groan. He massaged his face with his hands. Yep, it was going to be fan-fucking-tastic term seated next to the Pharaoh who looked at him with an ever inquisitive expression.

…

Afterschool found Bakura sitting cross legged on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed against the bed. He wore a pair of shorts; his change of shirt lay next to him on the floor, a light gray long sleeved tee shirt. He cut at his exposed arms indiscriminately with one of his razor blades. He tugged the piece of metal through his soft flesh, the blades dull with use.

He winced at each cut, forcing the dulled blade to cut deeper, to bring more that a few beads of blood to the surface. He switched hands again, testing out the blade with his non dominant hand and cut awkward lines, a parody of the even slices on his opposite arm. Each jab of pain made the pressure in his head dissipate, a calmness rolling over him brought on by the combination of stinging lines and red bubbles of blood.

So deep in his reverie, he didn't hear the sound of knocking, until Ryou called out, "Can you answer that, Bakura?"

He scowled, but did not budge. "I'm busy!" he called back, returning to gazing stupidly at his arms.

"Please Bakura, I'm—" a loud crash interrupted whatever Ryou meant to say. Bakura hastily tugged the gray shirt over his chest and slid each arm through their respective sleeves, before exiting his room. He glanced in the direction of Ryou's room. Assured the other boy was at least alive, he padded over to the door, stepping down in his socks into the genkan, which Ryou hated.

"Thank you!" Ryou's voice floated out to him as Bakura roughly opened the door, glaring balefully at the person on the other side.

"What Pharaoh?" He moved back so Yami could come in.

Yami gaped as he stepped out of his shoes, causing Bakura to whip his head in the direction of Yami. Suddenly remember the proximity of his steadily bleeding arm and the Pharaoh's ogling face; he jerked his arm behind his back. He could feel the slickness of blood through the sleeve as he grasped his arm.

Yami leaned over on his toes, trying to get another look at Bakura's arms. "Are you bleeding?"

Bakura backpedaled, "I scraped my arm on the way out, is all." He closed the door and stomped to his room, ignoring the two eyes trying to burn away the fabric of his shirt sleeves with their gaze.

When Bakura locked himself in his room, he rolled up his sleeves and swiped the razor blade across his arm, because, now, he had a legitimate reason to cut. He grinned eerily at the macabre thought, and went right back to cutting scratches into his arms that, feeling the sensation of blade tugging through skin painlessly as endorphins raced. He tried to ignore the rising anxiety blooming in his gut or the trembling in his fingers, tried to return to the peacefulness of cutting and watching the blood drip down his arms.

…

While Bakura spent the afternoon of September second cutting his arms after his encounter with Yami, Ryou found himself whisked away on an errand with Yami. After the short walk over, where Yami pointedly answered his queries with vague responses about Solomon requiring his help with a mysterious...something, the two finally reached the Mouto's house. Ryou followed Yami in the back way, around the still busy Kame Game Shop. The lights were off as the two slipped off their shoes, and stepped up into the house: clue one Ryou had something was off. The second clue: the sounds of hushed voices trying to quiet other hushed voices.

A smile pulled at his lips, and he was grinning broadly when the lights flipped on and a bunch of people popped up from their respective hiding spots to shout, "Surprise! Happy Birthday, Ryou!" Ryou opened his mouth, intent on inquiring about the absent person, when a present was handed to him from Joey, whom he thanked and opened the gift. Once more thanking him after peeling back the gift wrap to reveal an ultra rare version of the Change of Heart card. "Bakura had your old one, so I thought you might want it," Joey said, shrugging.

"It's beautiful," Ryou murmured, looking at the gold lettering and shiny foil that made up the half angel half demon caricature. He glanced around the room. It felt like something was missing, when another present, this time from Solomon Mouto, was thrust into his hands.

He lost himself in the process of opening gifts, when the phone rang in the kitchen. He heard Mrs. Mouto greet whomever was on the line, then called for Yugi's grandfather. The party halted, and Ryou glanced at all of his friends, realizing in that moment, what—rather who—was not there.

"Where's Bakura?" he glanced at Yami, who had last spoken to Bakura at their apartment. Yami crossed his eyes, looking lost in thought at the mention of Bakura.

Suddenly his expression shifted into horror. "Damn, I totally forgot to tell him!"

Ryou narrowed his eyes, feelings of sympathy as he imagined ho Bakura must be feeling all alone, boiled in his stomach. "How could you?" he accused, voice still calm.

"It's a long—" Yami began, but was cut off by Solomon Mouto reentering his room with a disquiet look on his face. He called over Ryou.

"There's been an incident with Bakura," he said lowly. Yami, overhearing, invited himself along, mind looping images of the blood stains on his enemy's shirt.

"Sorry everyone," Ryou apologized as Solomon rushed him out the door. "I need to go see Bakura."

He kept his eyes to the floor, ignoring Joey and Tristan's vehement protests, and tossing of uncouth, foul language to describe Bakura.

…

It wasn't working. Or, rather, the cutting wasn't working enough. As if there were a daily limit and Bakura had exceeded that limit. After Ryou had left, trailing the idiot nosy son of a bitch of a Pharaoh out of the apartment, Bakura returned to sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor (behind a locked door because why risk getting called out twice in one day?), scratching at his arms with a razor blade, hoping to reach numbness along the sharp edge.

Well, it failed. Bakura added another littering of bleeding cuts on top of the lines from less than an hour ago. Frankly it hurt to cut over fresh wounds. As for aesthetics, it didn't work as effectively. After most of the bleeding stopped, Bakura ducked into the bathroom to raid Ryou's supplies and bandaged up the newest cuts—might as well follow doctor's orders.

Actually… The thought gave him pause. He would need his own personal arsenal of gauze, bandages, peroxide, and the like, so as to not rouse Ryou's suspicions when his rarely used supplies ran out at increasing frequency.

Then it was pulling at him, the sensation that he was drowning in this: the mediocrity of subsisting behind closed doors and long sleeves, and he didn't want to live the boring humdrum like, micromanaged by the school system, ugh. It was a torrent of thoughts crashing over him in a maelstrom, and then Yami seeing the blood caked on his sleeves. He seethed with anger that made him grind his teeth.

Yes, he needed first aid supplies, and what better way than taking a short jaunt up to the local convenience store, and raising his morale with a handful of stolen first aid supplies. The thought brought a smile to his lips and lifted his spirits. Arms securely bandaged and likely not to bleed through the layers of gauze, he shrugged on a new long sleeve shirt (black just in case), and off he went.

Over the bridge and through the woods, he thought humorously. His steps were practically light as he walked the concrete path to the convenience store he nicked new razors from when he was ill. Everything washed away in the haze of adrenaline. It was a fuzzy popping sort of sensation in his brain, as Bakura slid through the sensor detection doors. Almost like a drug, he went from depressed an miserable to on top of the world. And nothing could bring him down.

This moment. This pinnacle of everything; this absolution. In this very instance Bakura could breathe. As he walked through the aisles, a weight lifted from him. He was no longer Bakura Yami of the 21rst century; he was Thief King Bakura. He was raiding the Pharaoh's tomb. Hell, he was comfortably numb. Brain thumping in sync with the tempo of his heart, a drum beat, his own personal musical beat, e grabbed the first aid supplies.

Aisle after aisle, pursuing the store now, his hand autonomously went through the motions. Two fingers snaked the edges of each container. At this moment: bandages. Reaching into the box of bandages with the self same fingers that he discreetly deposited a container of antiseptic solution, butterfly stitches, and a whole host and variety of first aid supplies, Bakura, mind spinning much more slowly now, slipped the bandages in his school bag. Satisfied by the stillness of his thoughts, the lack of self hatred unfurling in a constant rhythm, silence at last, Bakura walked past a young sales woman who bowed to him and thanked him for his service.

He felt his lips tug upwards in a smirk, then…

"Excuse me, sir." A hand clamped on his shoulder and fear slicked the back of his throat.

Bakura froze. He registered the store employee, but his words reached Bakura's ears dimly, as if through a fog. The same fog settled over his shoulders and trickled down his back. He couldn't breathe right, and he swallowed airless gulps of saliva.

"Sir?" The employee pressed. The hand on his shoulder bit down. He allowed the employee—the assistant manager he introduced himself—to steer him towards the back of the store. He beckoned another employee on his way back. Led through the same aisles Bakura had perused minutes ago with the clarity and acuity of Thief King Bakura, now Bakura shuffled is feet in between two employees, the assistant manager and an older female worker. His thoughts muffled under a layer of numb haze.

Dread pooled in his stomach.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> In Japanese schools when the term changes, students are given new seat assignments. Also, September 1 is the start of the "winter" so to speak, so students are required to wear their winter uniform, regardless of weather—which is especially hellish because Japanese schools don't have air conditioning. This might be more lax now, and I think, if the weather was truly awful and miserable, there might be leniency?


	21. September 2, 1998 Part 2

Chapter 21: September 2, 1998 Part 2

Bakura stared at the wall, lips pressed together displaying neutral non-emotion. He clenched his jaw and flexed the muscles of his arms stealthily under his shirt sleeve, possibly ripping the newest cuts open as they tug against the adhesive from nicked Band-Aids from Ryou. After he had finally cut enough to realize his attempt was futile, Bakura had changed his shirt, grabbed his keys, and skipped off to the nearest convenience store to follow Dr. Satou's advice: keep the wounds clean.

He smiled sardonically at the thought, earning an equally nasty look from the bulky security guard who stared at him over the table. Bakura steeled himself, trying to summon enough indifference to his situation. He told himself he didn't care, this was just one of the expected outcomes, a result of his actions. He glanced at the assortment of first aid supplies he had tried to plunder: bandages, ointment, and rolls of gauze. His arms burned under the sleeves of the shirt he had changed into, a black as the night sky and long sleeved.

He uncrossed his legs then re-crossed them.

"Sir," a voice jolted from the recesses of Bakura's mind, as the memories swirled in his thoughts.

Dead weight sunk in the pit of his stomach, and a chill washed over his neck as if an ice cube had been pressed against his skin. He faced a middle aged man in everyday clothing, as the assistant manger left him stranded wit this stranger and the same female employee. "Yes," he asked.

"I think you should come with me, kid," the man, Bakura realized belatedly was a security guard employed with the convenience store. Bakura swallowed, and followed the man down a short hallway to a different room than the assistant manager, where he had been asked to turn out his pockets. One by one, the medical supplies had been unearthed, and the close proximity to the assistant manager became more authentic as it finally sunk in. He had been caught.

The door to the nondescript back room opened, to reveal three chairs and two tables. The female employee glanced at Bakura, uninterested, and sat down in a spinning office chair next to the smaller table with a computer. She grabbed the pen tucked behind her ear and swiveled so she faced away from the computer, and jotted down some information, addressing both Bakura and the security guard.

"Nature of the theft?" she spoke in monotone, experience with this type of interaction bleeding through. Bakura stared at the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"Taylor saw this kid filling his pockets with that," the security guard waved a hand at the pile of various medicines. The female employee raised her eyebrows as she noticed the pile.

She commented, "That's unusual," as she wrote down a vague description of the attempted stolen goods. "Usually kids are after the novelty items."

Something akin to concern lightened her expression as she gave Bakura a once over. He gritted his teeth. "Why first aid supplies," she asked pen between teeth as she sucked on the plastic tube.

"Don't worry about that. We need his name and personal information," the security guard snapped. He tossed Bakura a look that clearly indicated Bakura had interrupted his precious spare time. He leered in Bakura's face. Bakura recoiled from the pungent acridity of cigarette breath. "So, you got a name?"

Bakura sneered, fully intending to the wait the man out. His mind flung into gear, processing the situation he was in and coming out of its comatose numbness.

"Look, we can do this the easy way or not," the security guard threatened, standing up to lord over Bakura.

"Please don't!" The female spoke sharply. Tone switching from a desperate high pitch, back to her more efficient neutrality, she continued, "Taylor recognized him from Domino High School. We've already called his guardian."

Bakura's eyes widened. He wasn't aware of that. When had that happened? He sagged against the hard wooden chair he sat in, tuning out the rest of the conversation between the employees. His mind buzzed at him, snapping at his inadequacy as the situation turned ugly, and complicated, out of his control. The despair always within reach, washed over him. He stared at the plain table, eyes downcast.

Solomon Mouto and Ryou arrived within minutes that stretched like eons, a century passing in each second, making Bakura feel helpless as he watched events unfold. Solomon held a small house plant and wore a somber expression. He bowed deeply to the female employee and security guard. Bakura saw the disbelief streaked in Ryou eyes, and kept his head dipped.

He scratched his arms, igniting flares of pain. The security guard rounded on him, eyes narrowed. "What? You hiding anything else?"

He shook his head against the long winded apology Solomon Mouto made. "…deeply sorry about this. Is there anything we can do to repay you?" After a long moment, he rose from his deep bow to look at the employees in the eye.

This seemed to placate the two, because the female said, "Because he is a minor, we can write this off and let you decide how to accommodate his actions."

Solomon spoke in a gruff voice, sounding more like a parent than Bakura or Ryou had ever heard, "Yes of course. He will be disciplined, rest assured."

The meeting closed with a long session of pleasantries, and Solomon held another deep bow, before the three left to meet Yami, who sat in the front seat of Mr. Mouto's normal, compact car.

Yami noticed the change of shirt immediately as he scanned for lingering blood stains on Bakura's sleeves. He opened his mouth to call Bakura out on it, but Solomon spoke in a low voice, his hands grasping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I don't intend to deal with this until you turn twenty. This is not what I had in mind when I accepted the part of de facto guardian."

Bakura stared dully out the window, watching the familiar scenery whizz by, the same locations he had walked to reach the store in the first place. "We aren't so desolate, you need to resort to stealing," he continued. "Especially rubbing alcohol," Solomon emphasized "rubbing alcohol," the word twisted into a bitter epithet.

Bakura shrugged, all the while mentally cementing Solomon as the guilty individual if he became ill with an infection again. Yami turned to stare at Bakura in the backseat next to Ryou. "Why rubbing alcohol?" he asked thoughtfully.

"It doesn't matter why," Solomon said, tone clipped.

As the car pulled into the apartment parking lot, Solomon rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand as he steered the car over to the entrance to let Ryou and Bakura out. "I think," he said as a parting, "you need to learn the value of hard work." His eyes glinted.

Bakura stepped out of the car, letting the rest of Solomon's thought sweep around him, where he locked it up beneath his tight self control, where he would release it later… "Perhaps you should come work for me at the game shop, under the table of course." Solomon added the last bit at Ryou's protests that holding a job was prohibited for students.

Bakura walked away, into the apartment entrance, emotions threatening to bubble over his mask of indifference.

…

By the time he shut himself in his room, Bakura was positively seething. His breath came in gasps, and he felt a headache bearing down from the strain of maintaining a glare for a long length of time. He grabbed the Change of Heart card from the floor, smashing the card as he held it tightly in his fist. Solomon's words cut at him, jabbing him in the back, making his blood boil and his hands curl into fists. He wrenched up his sleeves, not bothering to find a comfortable spot to sit.

He slashed into the meat of his forearm, not pausing or second guessing his decision to cut, just hacking away at his arm with the steadily dull blades. He tugged harder, pressing down until the metal bent in half under the weight of his fingers. He cut, roughly, over and over, not feeling anything, just reacting. He glared harder, the pressure in his head building and building to some eventual boil over, but it never came.

Perhaps he spotted the blood dripping down his arm to the carpeted floor, perhaps he finally registered the pain shooting up his arms, recognizing the deep ache that was bigger than the stings from his usual cutting sessions, perhaps the endorphins kicked, sending torrents of pleasure through his nervous system. He fell onto the bed, unable to process the amount of damage.

A large cut, near the top of his forearm, sagged opened, similar to an eye, the edges peeled apart. He watched with interest as the gaping wound slowly filled with blood, red hiding yellow fat cells from view, never really competing with the smaller, less deep cuts at the bottom of his forearm, which, blood beginning to coagulate, snaked around his arm. Blood splatters stained parts of the carpet, but he didn't notice, too preoccupied in the nasty cut that didn't bleed proper.

…

Ryou stared into the dredges of his tea cup, watching the yellow-green liquid swirl around a clump of dark green tea leaves. He sat in his favorite armchair, glancing at the digital clock, the white numerals on the bottom right of the television screen, which was turned to a show featuring the newest pop band. Something innocuous, that didn't lower Ryou's inhibition and encourage triggering thoughts.

He took another small sip of the tea, slowly swishing the bitter liquid around his teeth, trying vainly to convince himself he would not run off to the toilet to regurgitate the frozen dinner he choked down—he glanced at the clock on the television again—almost an hour ago. Noticing this, his breathing came a bit easier, as he noted he was past the optimal time to purge his food.

He could resort on pure logic now. There was no point in causing himself pain; he didn't need the aching ears, the tightness around his eyes, the pressure in his jaw, the weird spasms of pain in his chest, or the sores in his mouth—especially if he wasn't actually throwing up calories. He reached into his jeans pocket, thumbing his mobile phone. He had already called his old therapist from last summer for an emergency session tomorrow after school.

The reaffirmation of this helped the knot in his chest to untwist some. He sucked in lungfuls of breath, finally bringing himself to stand up and take care of his mug. He inhaled deeply again: he should also check on Bakura.

He frowned, unable to process why Bakura had felt the need to steal medical supplies. Not only were there an abundance in the cabinet above the kitchen sink, but he could always ask Ryou to pick some up on a shopping excursion. Splicing the pieces together, trying to form the whole jigsaw, Ryou knew Bakura was a tomb robber, a thief king, in the past, but why would he attempt to shoplift items now that he didn't require the profit thieving earned to survive?

Ryou could hazard a guess as why Bakura was caught; he was ignorant of cameras and electronic detectors. But that didn't solve the mystery behind his choice of theft. He dumped the used tea leaves into the garbage and rinsed his cup out. Happy birthday to me, he thought to himself, before venturing down the hallway to Bakura's closed door.

He knocked on the door and leaned in, a hand pressed to the door as he overheard the flurry of activity in Bakura's room. He opened the door, revealing Bakura throwing a hooded sweater over his current shirt. His eyes flicked to take in the general chaos and disorganization in the room. He noticed the Change of Heart card in its card protector lying on the floor near Bakura's feet.

He remembered Joey's gift, making his heart swell, and Joey's assumption Bakura had stolen the card. "You still have that?" He bent down to retrieve the card, but Bakura's hand clasped over it, shoving the card into his jeans pocket.

"Yes," he said, not elaborating

Ryou brought a hand to Bakura's face, ignoring the accompanying flinch. Bakura narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?" Ryou asked. He loved over Bakura's floor, the jumble of all long sleeve tops and long pants. He bit his lip. "Why don't you have any summer clothing?" He phrased the question to make it as non confrontational as possible.

Bakura wrenched his face out of Ryou's hand. He gestured to the floor. "I never thought to buy any," he replied with the least defensive answer he could, knowing this conversation could lead to revelations he did not particularly care to reveal.

Ryou looked out the window, following Bakura's gaze. "We could buy some, you know," he said softly, trying to dig deeper into Bakura's psyche.

Bakura tensed at the half formed realization in Ryou's head. He balled his hands into fists underneath his sweater sleeves. He just suppressed the hiss of pain from the still gaping cut on his arm. "Yeah, sometime."

He caught Ryou's eyes, "Happy Birthday."

Ryou smiled, relaxing, the almost formed epiphany slipping away from him, like the unbinding of ribbon as he remembered the birthday party Bakura had not been informed of. "I'm sorry about that. That wasn't fair of them," he said in reference to the surprise party Bakura had heard about as they waited in the back room.

Bakura cocked his head, not willing to admit how much that admission consoled him. "S'okay," he muttered.

…

When Ryou settled into his room to sleep before school the next day, Bakura rose, taking off the sweater and padded down the hallway to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him and wrenched off his shirt, wrinkling his nose at the dark splotches on the arms that didn't look suspicious, but he knew it was blood.

Staring at the sink, he stared at his arms, at the rows and rows of scratching, at the bloody caked on crusts of blood near his wrists and the cuts nearby that were closed, sealed with dried blood. The cut on his upper forearm stood out in its eerily split open shape. Bright red blood pooled in the cut, never trickling over as he expected. He searched the mess of his arms for the scar from the first time he cut deeper than he meant, from the first time he used the razor blades. The scar was wide, less than a millimeter, but still more prominent and slightly raised. Even the scar from his infection was never quite so menacing.

He mentally shrugged it off, assuring himself scars were not an issue. As long as he kept cutting, he could never reveal his arms anyway. He turned on the faucet, exhaled, and shoved his cut up arm under the lukewarm water, fighting the scream that threatened to tear itself from his throat as the water burned, boring into the cuts.

He opened the cabinet as a distraction from the sharp pain, grabbing a handful of peach colored Band-Aids. After scrubbing what blood he could away from the cuts, he placed a Band-Aid on the worst of the them, using three for the gaping cut, trying to ease the sticky material away from the wounds,

When he returned to his room after a few moments and donned another new shirt for the day, he felt the tiniest bit relieved, as if the bandaging of his body could replace the lack of acceptance Yugi and his group felt towards him.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I'm not quite sure what the protocol for shoplifting as a minor in Japan, but I imagine it would default to the parent. Or in Solomon's case, the de facto guardian. I had him bring a house plant as a gift of apology. This is something that does happen in Japan. An example is if you plan on doing work on your house/property, the polite thing to do is apologize and bring a gift (something useful, like laundry soap). Solomon brings a house plant, because I don't think a convenience store could benefit from and "useful" gift. As Japan westernizes, this will probably be less common.
> 
> Solomon bows very deeply as a sign of extreme respect and apology. What I know about bowing is: the deeper you bow, the more sentiment behind it. The saleslady who bows as Bakura is leaving likely dips her head as a small "thank you."
> 
> Twenty is the age of majority in Japan.
> 
> Ryou's protests about not being able to work while in school is not reflective of all of Japan, but that fact is canon! Anzu/Tea hides the fact she is working at Burger World in the early manga.


	22. The Week Alone

Chapter 22: The Week Alone

…

Over breakfast, after a long, agonizing Saturday (which Bakura skived off school) and Sunday spent cooped up in his room, unable to meet Ryou's disappointed gaze, Ryou announced he would be home late after school. Bakura looked up from his bowl of rice. "Why?" he asked. The tug of the Band-Aids against his skin under his uniform sleeve reminded him of the pleasantness of tending to himself two nights before, after the incident...

Ryou took a bite of fish, then a sip of tea, taking his time to respond. "I have a therapy appointment," he said at last.

Bakura paused, chopsticks halfway between his dish and his mouth. "Thought those were only on Fridays?"

Ryou blushed over his mug. He tapped his fingers against the china. "I, um, moved it up, just in case."

After a few months of Ryou's renewed therapist visits, Bakura began to understand the purpose more acutely. By moving up his appointment, which he had done more so in July in his first weeks of treatment, Ryou announced he was struggling with his illness. Bakura grimaced, wishing he hadn't queried further, whilst Ryou clinked his fingernail along the surface of the slightly too hot tea cup. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Oh, okay then," Bakura said, then speared a large chunk of vegetables, swallowing down the rock in his throat. The two continued to eat their meal in silence.

…

Classes passed with the same familiar routine and monotony, temporarily catching Bakura off guard when Yami brought up his fated punishment. Bakura stretched his arms out straight, making sure to watch the sleeves' path up his arm as the material pulled tight against his wrists. Satisfied at the pinpricks of pain along his arms and the lack of visible scars, Bakura brought his arms back to his desk, resting his head on his arms.

This is when Yami spoke, "Grandpa wants to let you know, you start next week." Bakura made a face into his folded arms, but did not look up. "Next Monday right after school."

After a moment of Bakura not responding, Yami leaned closer. "Are you listening, Bakura?"

"Listening to what," Joey asked, coming over to plop down onto an empty desk next to Yam and Bakura.

Yami shook his head. "It's nothing, just a message from Grandpa."

Joey swiveled around to glower at the still form of Bakura. "What does Grandpa want with him?" he asked, thoroughly confused. He ran his fingers through his hair.

Marik glanced up from the piece of homework he was desperately trying to finish before next period's teacher came. His desk was adjacent to Yami's so he could clearly make out the conversation. "I don't think we should be announcing that so publically," he said to Joey and Yami. Both had the decency to look chagrined.

Tristan bounded over, placing a hand on Joey's shoulder. "Are we talking about what happened at the party Friday?" After Ryou and Yami left with Solomon to pick Bakura up from the convenience store, word had spread quickly about Bakura's shoplifting incident, so all the members of the group were informed.

Bakura lifted his head, at the sound of Tristan's voice. He glared at everyone in the vicinity. Joey smirked at the hateful look twisting Bakura's face similar to how he looked during the infamous shadow duel with Yugi during Battle City. At the uncanny resemblance, Joey said, speaking softly for privacy reasons, then louder as his speech became less sensitive, "With the Millennium items you are just human. I'm not scared of you. You're just a crazy lunatic—"

He cut himself short when Bakura slammed his feet against the floor, indoor shoes smacking the tile floor. He walked over to Joey, never once touching the blond as he leaned over him, boring two deep brown, almost red, eyes into Joey's orbs.

"Don't assume I care about your opinion, you fool." He leaned forward more, knocking Joey off balance as he tried to jerk away from Bakura's looming countenance. "Fuck off you worthless simpering idiot," he said, leaving the room just as the teacher arrived.

Bakura ignored her calls to return to the classroom, and headed to the school toilets. His arm still hurt uncomfortably as the Band-Aids tugged at his arms, but after that altercation with the foulest, most loathsome members of Yugi's group, he wanted nothing more than to slide a blade across his arm.

Bakura palmed the door to the toilets, letting the rotating door bang loudly against the wall. He propped himself over a sink, breathing in deeply through his nose. He stared at his ragged expression in the mirror, putting off the inevitable. The door opened; Bakura looked over. He narrowed his eyes, feeling the tightening in his chest as the security of cutting was ripped out from underneath him at the presence of Marik.

"What?" he barked, conveying he did not appreciate the intrusion in a single word.

Marik stared at Bakura openly. He took in the desperation just behind the former thief's narrowed eyes. He stepped forward, and Bakura stepped backwards, like a caged, cowering animal. "What's wrong with you?" This wasn't the ally he remembered in Battle City, the fearless, ruthless, overly confident spirit of the Millennium Ring.

"Are you following me?" Bakura tossed out an accusation which they both knew the answer was an affirmative.

Marik simply widened his eyes, neglecting to respond to the easily answered question. "Why did you come to the toilets," he asked, settling for a safer territory.

Which Bakura, who had a hand in the front pocket of his uniform pants, tightly fisting the card, did not consider neutral ground. He shouted, "Leave me alone, fuck!"

"I don't think I should," Marik said honestly. Bakura ground his teeth together and, ducking into one of the stalls, slammed the door shut as he locked it.

"C'mon Bakura, talk to me, please? We used to be allies!" Marik called over the closed door.

Bakura pressed his back to the door, yanking his sleeve and jacket cuff back as far as they would go without tearing, blade poised, ready.

Marik's pleading gave way to silence as he listening to the sounds Bakura made in the stall. His skin prickled as he thought Bakura might be crying in there. He grimaced, tucking some of his platinum hair behind his ears as he tried to deduce the oddly placed sounds that reached him.

He heard the sound of fabric rustling and plastic, like opening an electronics package. Then a sound, Marik could not describe, barely audible, yet clear. Odd, he wasn't sure if it came from Bakura or emanated from the plumbing and electric systems circulating the toilets. Bakura inhaled, skipped a breath, then exhaled lowly. Marik furrowed his eyebrows. He leaned against the row of sinks, waiting for Bakura to exit.

The rustle of toilet roll reached his ears, another long moment passed, and Bakura flushed the toilet with his foot, visible through the crack at the bottom of the door.

Bakura stepped out from the stall, face impossibly smooth, a steep contrast from a few minutes earlier. His eyes were dry, not a hint of redness. Marik sighed, relieved, yet aware that something was still not quite right with Bakura.

"You're still here?" Bakura accused, some of the anger returning to his face. His eyes lit up, no longer flat.

Marik tried one more time, as Bakura washed his hands, not bothering to roll up his sleeves, allowing water to splash on his dark blue jacket, "You are okay, aren't you?"

Bakura declined to answer, simply leaving the toilets with Marik at his heels like a lost puppy.

…

Afternoon found Bakura alone in his bedroom. The silence of the apartment settled over him like a yawn, gradual and elongating. Ryou had yet to return from his impromptu therapy appointment, and Bakura felt the same emotion from this morning twist his guts in a way that forced him to grit his teeth. After his infection over the summer holiday; after the amount of cutting he had done over the past couple days, he really really should not find reason to cut.

Yet, there he was, fingers fumbling with the well worn Change of Heart card, and thoughts refusing to stop with the endless encouragements for self harm.

Failure. He couldn't do anything right, not even something as simple and mindless as his fucking former occupation. Akin to his cutting, Bakura wished he could scrub away the memories of the last couple days, of everything, of the last eight months, of his existence as a mortal alongside Ryou and his friends. This wasn't life. The endless day after day bullshit monotony—he never lived that way as a thief in Egypt.

Why? Why can't he just fucking conform? Go to school, come home, sleep, eat, play the fucking rat cycle, and be content.

Instead, as Ryou found complacency at his therapist (to discuss the be all, end all boundless inadequacies of living with himself—hell, even Bakura tried to cut himself away), here he was, seated, cross legged, in his drab and dull bedroom. The Change of Heart card and protector rested on one knee, while two blades spilled out onto the floor, a sliver of something novel amongst the haphazardly thrown long sleeved shirts and myriad of bottoms. Fuck. Bakura rubbed a hand down his face, fingertips trailing over the contours of his nose and lips. He curled his fingers inwards, scratching the rest of the way down his chin, lungs expanded in self hatred.

Failure. Pointless. Piece of shit. Over and over, relentless tape track unwinding in his inner monologue. Thoughts not always concrete, but certainly tinged with negatively and revulsion. Fuck it.

And any restraint, any hesitance, any teensy desire to not pluck one of the little blades dissolved sucked away in the vacuum of his inner diatribe. Fuck it, and self control peeled away with each angry slice to his forearm.

With the familiar heat of blood dripping down his arm, he sucked in a deep breath.

Bakura slipped the blades into the back of the card protector, and let it fall to the floor with the rest of the trivialities of his modern life. Slowly, the cuts clotted, blood congealing in crusty remnants of its former silencing glory. The forced calm melted away, but the worst of the thoughts were chained behind new pinpricks of pain. Bakura slumped against his bed, head falling into the plush of his comforter.

He had fallen asleep before Ryou returned from…therapy, and slept through until morning without adding any new cuts, regardless, something had to change.

…

How did…yesterday go; How…was therapy on Monday; Are you…still eating: The questions hesitated as they probably would if Bakura expressed them verbally, clung to his thought, a pressing force. He should ask; for himself, and for the return of the once peaceful atmosphere in Ryou's apartment, for the days a month ago when he could think, if only to himself, that the apartment was theirs. But, as each day blurred into the next, Bakura remained silent, stoic as he routinely swallowed down his miso soup and rice, and Ryou followed suit, cautiously (but thankfully, still) eating his own breakfast.

On Saturday, after a week of restless redundancy and forced politeness, Ryou broke the new and entirely uncomfortable routine; he asked (with no hint or information pertaining to the past therapy appointment—the emergency one on Monday nor his scheduled appointment), if Bakura had any plans for his afternoon.

"Yugi invited us over," Ryou explained.

Bakura swallowed back a sarcastic quip concerning the term 'us', and forced his face to remain neutral despite the urge to eloquently raise an eyebrow in a mockery of the idiot Pharaoh or the simpletons that formed his group of friends. He never had plans—and Ryou knew it. However much he would rather sit, locked in his room, and drag a blade across his arm, part of him wanted to restore the delicate balance he and Ryou had crafted by August. He wanted a time where every thought didn't turn to the dueling card in his pocket, where he once forgot to grab his razor blades…

They were beyond that point, Bakura reminded himself as the repetitiveness of practiced and composed social niceties he and Ryou had maintained washed over him. Stilted then halted breakfast conversations, lunches spent alone at his desk in the classroom as the others enjoyed the fall weather, a farce of dinners separated by rooms: Bakura found himself shrugging and muttering an affirmative. In his own self pity, he didn't notice the way Ryou's eyes brightened or how his face seemed to relax.

"Great." Had Bakura been listening, really listening, he'd have head the enthusiasm lighten Ryou's voice. Instead, Bakura plucked a chopstick-full of vegetables disinterestedly, and he silently dreaded the ending of school.

…

The realization hit him with a heavy thunk in his gut as Bakura walked away from the group congregated in front of the Kame Game Shop, away from Ryou, away from what felt like his only haven. He should've shut his mouth, threw himself on a couch, and ignored the verbal taunting, then, eventually, allow it to bleed away on the edge of a razor. Why couldn't he ever shut his mouth, just not speak when his mind screamed at him to stop? The thought flittered away, only to be replaced with worse, crushing in the descending despair.

Bakura set his lips in a thin line, pressed tight so to not reveal the swirling abyss of emotions, the maelstrom that thankfully did not reach his eyes. He wanted to cut; every nerve ending sent out rapid fire alerts that he should… But he couldn't; even as Bakura stormed away from the Mouto's, his arms ached. The dozen or so fresh cuts just from the past week throbbed and stung in varied beats—just enough to keep the untoward display of emotions at bay.

His chest hurt, but he pushed away the pain, the tightness in his throat, the fatigue of his lungs as he forced himself to inhale and exhale, with each occurring spasm. And eventually, his breathing returned to normal and his mind cleared.

The little park he had visited in the past few months welcomed him as it always did. The quiet sound of children in the slight distance from the thick of tress Bakura nestled himself under reached his ears, white noise, which he ignored as he looked at nothing in particular. The idea of a piece of nature, a quieter, slower world than he had come from, in the midst of urban Domino City soothed his overwrought nerves, and here, amidst the shadows of trees, Bakura could almost forget everything.

An hour or so passed, before he realized no one was coming; the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting an orange glow, providing a warmth Bakura did not feel a part of. He wondered if he ever felt like the congregations of people slowly exiting the park. As the sun set further, quicker the park emptied, until, finally, Bakura pulled himself from the spot of grass underneath the tree he frequented.

Similar to a crying jag, Bakura felt used up, withered, and so cold—coldness the brisk early autumn night did not influence. He plodded his way back to Ryou's apartment, his steps sullen, formerly lifted with the increased temperatures of summer, when Ryou and he had been, almost, friends.

Or what Bakura could consider as friends. Ryou, his former host; Ryou, the ever forgiving teenager who acted twice his years with his level headed reasoning; Ryou he could almost let his guard down with. But, he didn't have that option anymore. The sickly feeling of guilt constantly barraged him, a subtle reminder that the course of this existence would be altered—maybe for the better (maybe not, as his mind clung to the image of the Pharaoh's face as he first noticed the blood dripping from Bakura's sleeves),

Not that he felt any remorse for stealing from the convenience store. That brought a smile to his lips. Of course not; the sentiment Bakura felt was genuine. A stupid little corner convenience store run by a mulit-million yen company—a foreign company at that, so, no, Bakura could care less about the employees or management he may have affected, nor the potentially increased prices he had been lectured about.

Hell, he would shop lift again. If he wanted to. If his pride hadn't been stripped away, the last of his former occupation, his formal identity and self sloughed away in that moment he had felt the security guard's hand upon his shoulder, and the sharp, "Excuse me, sir," sliced into the final layer.

The dark and empty apartment, devoid of its owner, dissolved the rest of Bakura's thoughts, or rather diverted them.

"Ryou?" Bakura said, not really expecting his inquiry to reach Ryou's ears, therefore not raising his voice. So, he was left alone here as well. He ignored the rising disappointment taking form as an image of the blades always at hand tucked away in his front pocket. No problem. Oh fucking well, he forced the tangible, worded thoughts to run across his mind. I don't care, he told himself, better off this way.

At the very least, no one would judge him; he wouldn't have to deal with Ryou's sad eyes, upturned and slightly moist, nor the Pharaoh and his idiotic band of monkeys glowering glares, nor his own eyes, downcast at the floor, visibly watching his feet turn and walk himself away from the Kame Game Shop. Here, in the darkened apartment, he didn't have to censor the accusations torn from his lips, nor did he have to choke back his own defenses, even as pithy as they were—because, really, how far did he expect a string of expletives to get him with Joey and Tristan ganging up on him, ignored by Ryou, egged on by the Pharaoh and Marik and their ever questioning gazes and faux concern? No, a week later, and nothing had improved, and, it seemed, nothing ever would.

In the end, he would've been better off holed up in his room, alone save for his blades, than trying to play nice with Ryou's friends to…to what, exactly? To make nice with Ryou? And, know what, he was much better off this way. Alone.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Just a reminder that in 1998, schools in Japan ran from Monday to Friday, with a half day of school on Saturdays. I can't find information on how the day is structured—like, do they lose classes on Saturday or are all the classes shortened? Are the students present for lunch? It's really bugging me, so I try, as I'm sure you've noticed, to not mention the details of a Saturday school day.
> 
> In regards to the convenience store, it's not important to the plot that it is a foreign owned company, I was just having a bit of fun with information I learned last week. Let's play "guess the name of the store Bakura shoplifted from". Haha. When I write about it, I'm always thinking of a cross between WalMart and CVS, but that's because they're the stores closest to where I live.


	23. I Know What You're Doing

Ch 23: I Know What You're Doing

Monday dawned far too soon for Bakura's liking. After the horrendous argument yesterday at the Mouto's, Bakura wasn't ready to face the Kame Game Shop in a part two of a never-ending infinitely he could never escape—rather, whatever work the shorter idiot's grandfather tasked him. The fact he had been caught and stopped had been explained by the presence of modern technology in almost microscopic cameras placed at the ends of every aisle. In short, Bakura's thoughts reminded him, he had even failed at something that should've been akin to respiration. Or, worse the concept that technology had reached a point of automation, this modern world just wasn't for him.

His thoughts were cut short with a small tentative smile from Ryou, a subtle reminder of what he had to contend with after school. Bakura appreciated the tact behind the simply exclusion of a verbal reminder.

…

That idiot, Joey, just had to pop off with some stupid, condescending rejoinder yesterday—obviously a retort to some information Bakura was not privy to. The 'hang out' at Yugi's had Bakura avoiding the group and sitting, alone, in the play park, trying to be invisible to all the gossipy mother's and young children. To top it, Bakura didn't even remember exactly what had been said to piss him off.

He remembered the shame, the implications. Joey made that clear every time he sat down for lunch. The past week had been especially hellish with the whole group openly opposing him. But, alas, he followed Ryou, and Ryou's eyes crinkled just a tad and lit up every time Bakura affirmed he would join Ryou for. And, he was eating: Bakura witnessed. He may have gotten caught shoplifting, and shamed via modern day 'politics' (and he still didn't really feel shame for his act, just shamed by others), but Ryou's eating…thing hadn't resurfaced because of it.

Joey already implied that it would—making, frankly no sense to Bakura. The idiot blond was already on the topic du jour, much to Bakura's quickly diminishing appetite and trembling fingers tightening around the chopsticks he imitated eating with.

"Well it is!" Joey yelled, "I mean what I say, and he's just not trying—" Whatever insult upon himself Joey intended to make was cut short by Bakura's intended departure to what was quickly becoming second nature, the toilet. In a Japanese home or school, Bakura truly could be alone in the small tatami space of the toilet. Of course, the school, included individual cubicles layered over a larger tiled room, so the privacy was diminished, but the blades beneath the Change of Heart card his hand curled around automatically, were not.

Privacy was quickly becoming a receding privilege as Bakura realized the Pharaoh had followed him down half the hallway. With a recall lag time like that, no wonder he had been caught at the bloody 7-11.

"Just headed the same as you," Yami deflected at Bakura's likely poisonous expression. Because, who would be irrational about that?

"I'm not about to steal the mascot, Bakura riposted as he slipped into a stall, a few from hopefully anything but prying ears. With a glance upwards, privacy confirmed, Bkura did what 'he' intended for the short trip to the toilet.

…

Bakura arrived at the Kame Game Shop, promptly after school. He followed the route Yami, Yugi, and Marik took to the bus stop, then rode the city bus to the closest bus stop, gratefully when it finally came to a screeching halt and he could get away from Marik's penetrating concern and Yugi's inane attempt to involve him in the conversation. It made him miss the comfortable silence of his walks home with Ryou.

"Hello, Bakura," he called, sounding more cheerful than he had the last time Bakura was near Yugi's grandfather. Bakura muttered a greeting. Solomon led him through the shop, into the back room, which Bakura was glad to note the inclusion of color so it wasn't as plain as the one he had been detained at last week.

"I don't think you're a bad kid," Solomon said, as he arranged a couple boxes on a cleared off table. Bakura arched a brow, but let the older man speak. "I think you're confused. Just like Marik." He gestured to the seat closest to the boxes, so Bakura sat, curling his fists on the metal seat, preparing for the onslaught of Marik's miraculous chrysalises.

"It was a rocky start, yes," Solomon said as he handed Bakura a clipboard. Bakura accepted it, uncurling one hand to grasp it. He glanced down at the boxes of descriptions. "I need you to take note of how many packs of Duel Monsters' cards came in," he explained.

Bakura nodded, unhooking the pen from the metal clasp on the clipboard. Solomon walked to the front of the shop at the sound of the bell announcing a customer. He lingered at the doorway. "You'll figure your way, just like Marik and Yami." He left the room, and Bakura breathed out, relieved.

He spent the next hour or so working on the tedious and mind numbing assignment Solomon had tasked him with. He made messy piles on the table, one for each of the five types of booster packs. His stomach turned at the ever present reminder of each of his dueling matches for the Millennium items, each of which he lost in the end.

The ease of the task granted his mind the freedom to wander and dwell on the darker and more depressing thoughts. Finally, all packs sorted, he fanned one type of pack, totaling up the amount of packs, thankful for the distraction. He jotted down the number, tossed the packs into the box, and started on the next pile.

"Good system," Yami said, leaning over Bakura. Bakura glanced up at Yami's chin above his head. He shook his head and finished counting, before deigning to reply.

"It's not hard," he commented. Yami pulled up a seat across the table. He toyed with one of the packs that Bakura had already finished sorting.

He flipped the pack over in his hands. "The first time Grandpa made me do this, I tried to count them before sorting them. Made it hard to keep all the numbers straight." He let out a small chuckle.

Bakura lowered the fan of cards he was counting, slid them up like a deck of cards with his opposite hand, and thrust the bulk into Yami's face up palm. "Count them," he growled. He picked up the second to last pile, glaring at Yami through his black fringe. "Since you made me lose count, fix it."

Yami fixed Bakura with an ugly sneer, but when the thief simply counted his pile in silence, Yami started adding up the number of packs in his hand. He grabbed the clipboard away from Bakura's side of the table, and wrote down the number next to the coinciding description. He handed it back after a moment, then picked up the last pile and proceeded to count them.

The two sat, silently counting Duel Monsters merchandise, until the silence ate at Bakura. Just what the hell was the pharaoh getting at, first at lunch and now…?

Bakura hedged a glare at his former rival and current enemy by association of Joey. He held it long enough Yami looked up from his counting, but, frankly, by the worried lip and hands that were twitching slightly in a mockery of a steeple.

"What?" Bakura barked out the inquiry since the Pharaoh obviously has something to say.

"I know what you're doing, Bakura". A flinch. A twitch of his eyes.

"Fuck off, Pharaoh."

Yami leans forward, eyes at meeting Bakura's. No arrogance, no pompous smirk, just a slack expression. Yami fixed his gaze towards Bakura. Instant freeze. Every nerve seemed to be awakened. He couldn't.

"Bakura,"

"Look, everyone knows," Bakura cut off whatever damning words with the intent to remind him his theft and subsequent punishment Yami was now interrupting were common knowledge, on to be cut short by Yami, then the punish-ie, himself: Solomon.

"I'm not talking abo—"

"Oh, hello Yami," Solomon ventured deeper in the back room to relieve Bakura from his task. He stopped short at the sight of the two once enemies seated at the same table, evidence clear of them cooperating, counting other types of games, Yami teaching Bakura the basics, pointing out where the item was on the inventory sheets.

The afternoon/evening crowd must've thinned out, and perfectly timed; Bakura grimaced a light smile at Solomon's evening greeting, "Well, boys, thank you for your work today. I appreciate your help."

Bakura placed the last game board in the box he had placed on the table a few minutes earlier and unearthed the clipboard. He returned it to Solomon, mumbling, "Goodbye," and not glancing in the direction of the Pharaoh whom was becoming worrisome for a new reason.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:   
> I can't say I know whether Japanese schools have mascots. I imagine if they do it's the figurehead of the top most senior administrator, so superintendent maybe? In a Japanese corporation, the CEO or president is the most valued person (but also most held to shame: it's actually a big deal that Kaiba is a CEO, but also is treated as a student by the education system).


	24. Freak Indian Summer

Ch 24: Freak Indian Summer

Weeks passed, school, work, and home all cycling, propelling Bakura into a plebian routine. More and more frequently, Yami helped out with the inventory, to which Bakura became almost accustomed to his help. Luckily, he mostly stayed silent, just a few glances every so often that more than reminded Bakura his secret was on limited time. One Friday in early October, Bakura let himself into the empty apartment. Checking the clock in the kitchen, Bakura noted Ryou had another half hour yet before he returned from therapy. On his way to his bedroom, he shrugged off his baggy sweater.

He sighed in relief at the shift in temperature. Rather than cooling off in preparation for winter, the weather made mockery of Bakura's standard long sleeved wardrobe, with summer-like temperatures until the sun set. He flung the sweater on the floor with other random discarded clothing articles, and lay upon his bed. As sunlight flickered through the window, Bakura held his co-dominant arm above his head, watching, usually unnoticeable to the human eye, silver lines shimmer.

His lips curled into a smile as he inspected the various scars and some new cuts along his forearm, from thin white scars, to the thick robe of scar tissue making up the hypertrophic scar on his upper arm. He ran a finger over the scar, wincing as leftover remnants of pain tingled, reminding him how deep that cut had been. The scar itself was wide, probably the width of a pen cap, and maybe a couple centimeters long. It was bright purple, unlike the rest of the scars that tended to fade from red, to white.

He tapped the skin near a new cut, relaxing when the skin was not hot to the touch. He tried to bandage his fresh cuts afterwards, though he habitually fell asleep or was interrupted immediately after cutting—especially since he bought his own assortment of first aid supplies and did not have to delve into the public, visible, stock.

He reached into his pocket for his card, taking in the scratched up surface of the card protector after months of wear and tear. His mind clicked, remembering what else he had bought when he bought the medical bandages. He tossed on a fresh tee shirt as he dug through his dresser drawers where he placed the disposable razor.

He settled back on the bed, using his hands to wrench the metal blades from the sheaths of plastic. He twisted at the plastic covering, already accustomed to this particular obnoxiousness. He was prying a blade from the top portion of the razor, when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the door knob to his room turning. He slipped, dropping the razor to the floor, foot automatically kicking it underneath his comforter, even as he dimly recognized he was bleeding.

"Fucker," he cursed, holding up his thumb as Ryou walked, laden with shopping bags.

"I stopped at the grocers on the way—" he began. When he saw the blood dripping down Bakura's thumb, down his palm, finally soaking into the thin fabric of his shirt, Ryou dropped the bags, rushing to Bakura's side. "What happened?" he asked.

"I caught it on something," Bakura said, the lie spilling from his mouth before he could fabricate a better story. Luckily Ryou, preoccupied with tending to the injury, did not notice the flimsy excuse.

"It's deep, but not too serious," he said, inspecting the cut. He grabbed a shirt from Bakura's floor, instructing him to put pressure on the wound and to hold his thumb above his heart. "I'm gonna grab some bandages."

"I got some in the desk drawer," Bakura offered. The implication of what he just revealed cracked open over his head, dripping around him like mental egg white and yolk, as he noticed Ryou's scrunched up nose.

He grabbed gauze, Band-Aids, and alcohol swabs from the desk drawer, then returned to sanitize Bakura's finger. As he wiped of the remaining dried blood with a medicated sheet, he asked, "What's with the mini pharmacy?"

Bakura felt heat rise in his cheeks, even as he tried to stamp down the reaction. He tossed his head back. "Why not," he said in reply. Ryou continued to gaze at him inquisitively as he slapped a Band-Aid over the cut, and wrapping a small amount of gauze over the area.

Bakura became familiar with Ryou's thoughtful expression at odd times, when he helped prepare dinner, during the school day when the teacher was lecturing, one morning as the weather report predicted another hot day—another unseasonably warm day where Bakura sheathed his arms in long sleeves.

It seemed even their homeroom teacher had made it his mission to see Bakura in the short sleeve uniform shirt. Their normally strict homeroom teacher had relaxed the winter uniform policy, rather choosing not to mention a student in incorrect uniform unless his own boss: the principal, or high administration chose to visit. That particular conversation with Kobayashi had been an awkward turn-about on the lectures Bakura had had to endure in the summer.

"With the unexpected heat wave and our unfortunate electric situation, it would not be remiss to, ah forgo, your jacket if need be," sadly, in Bakura's opinion, this statement had been directed to the class as a whole, and not himself. He was a little uncomfortable because the heat was a moist heat, compared to Egypt's dry heat.

The heat waves that plagued Domino during the days curled up under the skin, making Bakura prickly about the constant tingles that jolted him amidst other thoughts, or the beautiful rarity of thought—rare as that state was lately.

…

"Bakura," Yami started as he set a new box of cards to be sorted on the table between him and Bakura. He gave Bakura a level gaze. "Why are you wearing long sleeves?"

Bakura narrowed his eyes, but made no indication to defend himself, long since accustomed to Yami's questioning, since he had been making inquiries since Ryou's birthday. The current heat wave acted as a buffer to insulate Yami's most recent questioning (an assumption on Bakura's part that was proven correct when Yami continued his monologue. "It's sweltering outside."

Bakura raised a brow. "I'm cold," he said, nonchalant as he dug into the box. He handed the notepad to Yami, refusing to flinch or meet Yami's gaze, which had wandered to his telling long sleeved collar shirt.

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Yami said. Neither had raised their voices as they followed the same thread of logic and questioning, both resigned to never getting a resolution. "It's near 30 degrees. I find it too warm."

Bakura separated the packs into organized piles. "Five Blue-Eye's," he said and Yami jotted it down on the inventory sheet. "Well, I'm cold."

Yami sighed; Bakura offered him the next two pack totals, before Yami had a moment to lift his gaze from the notepad. Bakura suppressed the urge to curl up and hide as Yami's gaze softened with concern. "No, you aren't Bakura."

Luckily, for Bakura, that was all the Pharaoh was going to contribute to the inquisition today, so the two resumed working in silence, only speaking to record the inventory.

…

The classroom, had been turned into an art room proper with the inclusion of still lives, but the room shifted back to more of their bland homeroom as students had finished their still lives, worked on 'free work' projects that could count towards extra credit in the interim of Minami's announcing of their next project, the up until now, secretive project. As Minami introduced the conceptual self portrait, Bakura simply suppressed a yawn.

Seemed simple enough. Even Tristan wasn't pulling his 'if Miho likes art, so do I' lovesick routine for this as Miho loudly squealed her enthusiasm at such an expressive idea just in time for Culture Day. Even Tristan laughed at Joey's high pitch squeal imitation of young teacher and her protégée in Miho Nosaka.

Bakura almost smirked at the sudden devastation on Miho's face, which had Tristan pandering backwards in his to appeach his crush, "interesting when you explain art like that, Miho!"

Mirror, portrait. Paint. He could draw himself, sure. What idiot couldn't?

…

In the afternoon on one of those wickedly hot days a few weeks into October, Bakura sweated as he worked on the inventory. Alone in the shop (Solomon was outside promoting the newest twist in the Duel Monster's game), Bakura considered rolling up his sleeves. He decided against it, weighing the potential risk of discovery over any short term benefits, settling with wiping his dripping forehead.

He grabbed a large box in the far corner, intent to start on next week's merchandise. The box slipped from his sweat slicked fingers, falling with a thud to the floor, crushing his foot. He cried out at the foreign pain, at the sudden presence of weight, at the splinters of agony coursing from the top off his foot to each individual toe, at the bruise surely forming as blood welled to the top layers of skin.

He kicked the heavy weight off his foot, falling to the floor, little flickers of pain in his legs reminded him, that, yes, his foot fucking hurt. He sucked in a breath, trying to assimilate the pain, drawing it in to overwhelm any discontentment. He grimaced, scratching at his arm, pushing his sleeve up as he desperately tried to reopen the older cuts, tried to replace pain for endorphin.

Suddenly his arms were ripped from his grasp. He blinked as the calm rush of endorphins settled on him. He inhaled, then breathed out, before lurching backwards at the predicament he was in.

Yami kneeled in front of him, holding both of Bakura's arms in his hands. He looked into Bakura's eyes, trying to find the source of disturbance. Time slowed. Bakura's heart pounded in his chest; he breathed in through his nose against waves of nausea.

"What happened?" Yami asked, hands fisted around Bakura's wrist, still ignorant of the cuts beneath his fingers.

"I'm fine," Bakura choked out. Eyes wide, he tried to pull his hands free from Yami's grasp. "Let me go."

Yami's eyebrows shot into his crazy cacophony of colors and dyes he referred to as hair. He leaned forward, placing more pressure on Bakura's wrist. "I heard you scream."

Bakura squirmed as a Yami's fingers ripped into new cuts. Even as he felt blood bead up, making Yami's grasp slick against his arms. "Just, let, go," he pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to escape Yami's grasp, enunciating each word as he tugged against Yami. His eyes burned and spider webs filled intricate weaves in his chest. He struggled to breathe, gasping and wheezing.

"Tell me what happened!" Yami insisted, then, eyes widening further, he turned Bakura's wrists, in his hands, over.

…

Shattered glass. What self? The virulent shade of earth as al three base colors are swirled too long. What idiot was he thinking he portray himself?


	25. Self Mutilation

Ch 25: Self Mutilation

…

Three weeks ago

…

Ok, Yami tells himself as he sits primly in front of the largest bespoke source of processing power, he the Pharaoh of millennia past. He can do this. It's not as if he hasn't had lessons from Ryou's and Yugi's training crash course from hell to modernity last February. He certainly can use this computer. Besides he ought to be more focused at the mystery before him.

And he is. Less than a full week has passed since Yami bore witness to Bakura—before the shoplifting of what had been the strangest and yet, Yami knew it had to be linked. Miracles aren't so all seeming with the missing link. He would know, as one of the many Pharaohs that took the history of the pyramids of long ago with him. He…just needed the link.

This computer and it's search engines (Yugi had recommended the one his Grandfather had spent all of the last month marveling about Go-gal, or Google. Named after some obscure mathematical number he thinks Solomon and Yugi had raved, with a revolutionary algorithm. So far, Yami mused at tapping at the keyboard, he wasn't very impressed with the results shown to him, though querying for: 'blood stains and long sleeves' seemed to pull up a lot of poorly designed graphic boards for depressed teenagers.

Eventually Yami found he had to switch to English. Thankfully he still had a modicum of innate English language skills from Yugi's more instinctive studious habits before the influence of Joey. Thankfully the English side of Google held the elusive missing block of his puzzle.

It made sense, what the World Health article conveyed. Part of him was simply amazed the computer had produced a result from a few keywords and matching keystrokes. Another, larger part horrified as he read this article from nine years prior.

Self mutilation. Exactly, perfect, defining. And Yami couldn't fathom it.

…

Present

…

Yami flipped Bakura's wrists over, as he shook like a leaf desperate to stay attached, or in Bakura's case, upright. He had run down from his bedroom, when he'd heard the first curse to check on whoever was injured. Racing down two floors and skidding to a stop at the doorway between the shop and the back room, he ripped open the door. His heart stopped. Bakura, buttocks pressed on the floor, knees bent, legs spread, scratched at a spot on his arm, letting out low screams.

But, it was the crazed, deranged look on his face, reminiscent of Millennium World, that sucked him to the ground, gravity forcing him to his knees in front of Bakura. He wrenched Bakura's arms apart, not realizing why or that he had, in fact, grabbed the former thief. As Bakura's attempts to get out of his grasp increased with severity and warm liquid coated the tips of his fingers, Yami, stomach twisting, flipped Bakura's arms over.

And stared. Lines and rows of scars and cuts, and blood as far as Yami could see. He pushed Bakura's sleeves up with his wrist, still grasping Bakura's wrists. "Bakura," he breathed, "what is this?"

Anger flared in Bakura; his eyes flashing, he knocked Yami's hands away and ripped his sleeves down over his hands, curling the fabric into his fists. A cool smile pasted on his face, he responded in an equally chilly tone, "It's nothing. Pretend you never saw it." His eyes narrowed. "You certainly don't want to deal with it."

Yami sat back on his haunches, trying to envision all of those awful marks underneath Bakura's sleeves. There were so many, he couldn't keep track, must less count them up. "Who did this?" His mind refused to cooperate.

Bakura would've snorted at the nonsensical garbles spilling out of Yami's mouth like verbal diarrhea, but his heart pounded erratically in his too tight chest. He tried to inhale more air, more anything, to jumpstart his brain. "I said don't worry," he said lowly.

Yami looked up from Bakura's sleeves, into the hate filled eyes that didn't quite mask the panic as Bakura's eyes darted from one wall to the other. His breath caught in his throat as he heard Bakura's reply, like he was underwater, muffled. "You did this to yourself," he realized trying to grab for Bakura's arms again.

Bakura jumped up, knocking the table and boxes of sorted novelty items over, scattering plastic toys across the work area. His mouth opened and closed, completing the underwater sensation for Yami, as his mind worked to explain the cuts away.

"What happened here?" Solomon called, holding the door open. He caught the sight of Bakura smashing into the table and the torrent of novelty toys raining to the floor. He surveyed the room, Bakura standing erect and Yami kneeling on the floor, looking up at Bakura, looking torn.

Relief smoothed out Bakura's face, before he muttered an apology. "I have to go," he said in such a quiet tone Solomon had to place a hand to his ear to hear properly, and he still was not a hundred percent certain that was what Bakura said. Bakura dashed out of the store as fast as his legs would carry him.

Solomon turned his attention to Yami, the once Pharaoh, now the boy he had begun to view as another grandson. His heart ached as he took in Yami's appearance, still kneeling on the floor, a hand pressed into his trembling lips, the dazed look of one who had a gregarious epiphany, the absolute vulnerability of his expression, reminding Solomon that Yami, indeed, was just a boy.

He noticed the bright red droplets on Yami's fingertips. "Are you hurt?" he asked. Yami shook his head and wiped the blood off onto his shorts. Solomon reached a hand to Yami. "C'mon, up you go." Yami stood at his full height, a couple inches taller than Solomon. He conveyed his dilemma, staring down into Solomon's eyes.

Solomon squeezed his shoulder. "I think you should go after him." Yami nodded, eyes glassy and pained.

…

Yami caught up with Bakura at the park not too far off from his home. Without conscious thought, his feet had led him there. When he approached, finding Bakura slumped under a tree, looking exactly how he felt, he immediately recognized this park when Bakura admitted Ryou was forcing himself to vomit.

"Are you sad, mister?" A young voice jarred Bakura from the stinging in his knuckles and the pounding in his head that kept rhythm with his heart beat. Bakura glanced up from underneath his bangs. The little boy from months ago peered up at him, holding a bright blue ball in his pudgy fingers.

The kid smiled brightly. "I remember you, you know! You aren't mean at all," he exclaimed, catching Yami's attention as he watched from a couple meters off.

Bakura smiled, not sardonically, but not happily either, "You aren't aware of what I've tried to do, kid."

The little boy gazed up into Bakura's eyes. "I still don't think you're mean," he said finally, running off to answer his mother's call. Bakura slumped back into the embrace of the tree trunk. He reached into his pocket, finding comfort in his worn card. After slicing his thumb open, he eventually switched out the dull blades for sharper, new ones after he finished ripping them out of the razor.

He had hoarded the old ones in his dresser for a few days unsure how to dispose of them. Taping gauze over a cut on his arm, encouraged him to tape up the blades in a thick coating of gauze and dropping then in a public recycling bin.

Yami sat down next to him, as he had last time months ago, as Bakura flipped the card upside down, relaxing in the feel of the razor blades slipping up, then down, then up again. "Yes?" he asked, getting the inevitable conversation out of the way, so he hoped, quickly.

"That kid looks likes you," Yami said, unsure where the ideal place to begin was.

Bakura dug at the ground with his injured foot, which subsided to a dull ached, shoe misplacing blades of grass and upturning the tiny iota of the park's landscape. "No he doesn't."

Yami grabbed Bakura's hand as he continuously subconsciously cracked his torn knuckles, "What did you do now?!"

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:   
> The foreshadowing for this chapter/and next is in the beach chapters. They weren't just tribute filler.
> 
> Google debuted on September 4, 1998, and it was innovative for its time, but other search engines, like Duckduckgo, have been around since 1994. I was going to use Duckduckgo, but the factoid was too hard to resist. From my own web browsing (I was searching the prevalence of mental health in Asian countries, so changing the web extensions on Google) in 2009, I noticed was limited on results, so I imagined 1998 was probably lacking as well.
> 
> The World Health Article released in 1989 and used to be easier available online (again web browsing—though on a tangent it should actually be available by copyright laws, but whatever). I referenced the abstract to jog my memories, which fanfiction won't let me link. Title: "Self‐Mutilation and Eating Disorders" Authors: Armando R. Favazza MD Lori DeRosear DO Karen Conterio
> 
> I hope the flashback (they'll be another next chapter don't break up the story pacing, but I truly think flashbacks are necessary, and a little bit humor is needed.


	26. The Little Boy

Ch 26: The Little Boy

…

1 week ago

…

"What about baking?" Yami asked. His mind was coilded in the ever concerning presenece of Bakura and his likely self mutilation habit. The article, he thought on it often, definitely focused on self mutilation as a symptom of eating disorders, but Yami thought that maybe had to do with Ryou and Bakura being half a soul. He had barely registered the eating disorder information. Thankfully Ryou seemed ok for now…

"Hello in there?" A tan hand waving agitatedly in his vision made Yami blink out of his ever-present Bakura thoughts. Marik stood above him in the armchair with a pile of papers slightly crinkled in one hand, and not the spatula Yami had come to associate with cookies.

Though, with a house of all boys, aside from Yugi's mother, not much actual cookie baking tended to happen in the Mouto residence.

"Sorry. I thought you were baking?"

"What?" Marik shot Yami a confused look, one eyebrow quirked. Then he smiled slightly as cognizance flashed in Marik's eyes. "Oh! I mean electronic cookies, internet history. But that's not important: why are you looking about self mutilation?"

Yami's heart raced, though he knew logically he wasn't on personal inquisition. But it was Bakura's private information. "…the article was about eating disorders Maybe it was about Ryou."

"Ryou's ok right now. Besides, your search terms were obviously about Bakura."

"How do you know?" Not realizing he was quickly showing face.

"I know because I can't forget," Marik gestured just behind his shoulder blades, where the top of his engraved scarring of Yami's own history lay. "I'll never forget the sound of a knife against flesh makes, Yami, and Bakura was definitely cutting into flesh."

Conversationally Marik sets the papers down on the coffee table near enough to where Yami sat, he could make out the websites he had been on, but Marik's continued speech explained his internet faux paux: assural of privacy was not necessarily guaranteed. "I heard him in the bathroom, not long before I saw this in the search history."

"Search history?"

"That, cookies, data: it's all stored in the computer for anyone to find, a digital treasure hunt, really. But, I went through and deleted everything so Solomon wouldn't see anything. You should shred that by the way."

"Wait, why can't Solomon know?"

"Did you pay any attention in your citizenship appeal with Kaiba at all? Never mind, I don't think either of you two really get it. You and Bakura, and I are seen as minors in Japan, as kids by their laws until age twenty. Self mutilation's a reportable thing."

"Ryou talked with his father,"

"Solomon isn't Bakura's father. Who even knows if he likes him," Marik retorted, obviously in internal dilemma with his own history of fathers and father figures.

...  
Present  
…

Yami grabbed Bakura's hand as he continuously subconsciously cracked his torn knuckles, "What did you do now?!"

A heavy sigh. Bakura ripped his hand from Yami's grasp, letting his non dominant fall upon his injured knuckles. Pain was always a welcome sensation.

"Bakura," a low voice. "What did you do to your knuckles?" Each word enunciated

Bakura stared off into the distance, watching the self same little boy swing cheerfully as his mother pushed him. Yami sat poised next to him, as if ready and alert to spring into action if Bakura decided to run off again. Guess there was no foreseeable way to avoid this conversation. How idiotic could he be? Letting the heat anger him so much, but it seemed liked everything angered him.

Finally, another heavy sigh—definitely exaggerated—and Bakura answered. "Got angry, punched a tree."

Yami muttered something that sounded vaguely like, "At least that's normal."

"Fuck off, Pharaoh."

"What, did you like it when you cut up Ryou, so you decided to continue in this life?" mocking.

"Shut the fuck up," Bakura hissed, cognizant of the small child. "You don't know me!"

Yami seemed to pull himself together enough to apologize. "You're right, I'm sorry. Did you do this in your past life?"

The apology stirred some murky squashy emotion Bakura didn't want to acknowledge, and he mumbled, "Yes." Before he realized what he said.

"Why?"

"I'm not talking about this with you!"

"Well, you need to talk to someone."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. I bet Ryou would be horrified. He'd insist you see a therapist."

"And who is going to pay for that? Kaiba?" a laugh, bitter. "Just forget about it, Yami. I'm not…"

"Not what,"

"Nothing. Just forget this."

"Forget what, exactly? You're always saying to forget it." Yami countered. "Do you want forgotten?"

Yes. Bakura declined to respond.

Yami hugged his knees to his chest and looked out, at the playground, where the boy called out to his mother. His face was far chubbier than Bakura's and he sported a head of deep brown hair, whilst Bakura's was naturally white. "It's in the eyes." As he spoke, Yami wondered if there was ever a time Bakura's eyes had expressed such naivety and innocence.

Ignoring Yami's rambling for a span of minutes. He looked up to a face full of fuzzy brown hair and felt two small arms reach around his to give him a sideways hug. He snarled, ready to spit fire, when the intruder to his personal space was pulled back by a disheveled young woman.

"I'm so sorry for my son," she apologized, bowing.

The boy squirmed in her grasp. Bakura simply nodded his head, still lost in the feel of being hugged for the first time he could ever remember.

As the women left, Yami and Bakura could hear the boy's protests, "He looked sad, so I hugged him, Mommy."

Yami shot Bakura a smile at the young boy's overall cuteness. He remembered the card still in Bakura's hands. Snippets of memories of Bakura's protectiveness over the card tumbled through Yami's head. He grabbed for it, fingers latching on and pulling the card out of Bakura's hands, before he could react.

"What the fuck!" Bakura shouted. Yami recognized the rising panic in Bakura's face. He reached into the opening at the top of the plastic card protector, deftly pulling out the Change of Heart card.

For the second time that day, Yami was left speechless, as he saw three tiny razor blades between the clear front and black back of the protector. "Fuck, Bakura," he said at last.

Bakura snagged the card protector back, grabbing at it as Yami stared dumbly at the pieces of metal, storming off to put the blades to use, unconcerned about the fate of his once favorite card. He reached his and Ryou's apartment, sweat making his shirt to his skin. He pulled a face as he let himself in with his key.

Ryou glanced up from the armchair, where he was curled up with a novel and a steaming mug of tea. "Hello Bakura," he said, distracted as he flipped a page in his book.

...

Yami toyed with the Change of Heart card as he walked the short distance to his house. He snuck around the back way to prevent running into Solomon, whom would surely question him after he and Bakura had left the backroom in shambles. He silently crept towards the stairs near the living room, only making it past the couch, where Marik and Yugi were playing a new Duel Monster's game, courtesy of Kaiba Corp, before he was stopped.

"Come play with us, oh King of Games," Marik called as he punched buttons furiously on the game controller. Yami shook his head, fully intending on locking himself in his room.

Yugi caught his eye, which Yami desperately tried to prevent. "What's wrong, Yami? You look terrible."

Yami scowled, still flipping the card over in his hands as Bakura had done—he searched his memory and was horrified when he realized Bakura must have been doing that since spring. His stomach cramped, and a slightly smaller arm grabbed his and forcibly pulled him to the couch, where he collapsed onto it.

"Yami?" Yugi stared owlishly at his former partner. "Talk to us."

Yami jumped up, anger fueling him. "It's none of your business!" he shouted to Yugi, akin to Bakura's retort to him.

Marik tossed the controller on the cushion, game forgotten, and stared at Yami, bewildered. He had never heard Yami speak in anger to Yugi. Glancing between the two, he wondered what would happen next. Yami fell back against the sofa, Yugi at his side, as if he hadn't just been on the receiving end of Yami's shouting.

"No it isn't my business," Yugi said calmly, simply. "But your happiness is."

Marik asked, "What happened?"

Yami pressed his face into his hands. He muttered something that sounded like, "It's not my secret to tell."

Marik cocked his head, eyes narrowing instantly as he realized just what must of happened. "Bakura worked today, right?" He spliced through the mystery with pre-recognizance, narrowing the conversation to one figure.

Yugi glanced in the direction where Yami had entered the house, then the opposite direction, towards the game shop. "He did," Yugi said slowly. When Yami reacted badly, Yugi took that as an indication Bakura was the source of his frustration, and likely the mess of the gameshop he and his grandfather had cleaned in awkward silence. "What did he—?"

"He didn't do anything, Yugi. It's what I did." Yami spoke heavily, as if this afternoon had aged him all of his thousands of years.

"I didn't see him when I was down there," Marik scooted over on the couch. "In fact I didn't see you either, just the mess…" Another aside to the correct whom and what this conversation should focus on.

Yamii lifted his face from his hands, and Yugi and Marik could see his red rimmed eyes. He stroked the card absently, not quite aware of the presence in his hands, but comforted all the same.

"Isn't that Bakura's" Yugi asked, remembering when Bakura has angrily snatched it away from Yami at the beach the month prior.

Marik glanced at it, comprehension giving way to confusion at the sight of a Duel Monsters card, or rather the lack of understanding of it's significance. "Where's the protector he always has it in?"

Determining the information wasn't revealing, Yami croaked out, "He has it."

Both Yugi and Marik stared into identical looks of confusion as they looked over Yami's head. "I'm lost," Marik offered. "Thought I knew…" Yami stared at the paused video game in stony silence as Marik and Yugi attempted to reason through not enough information. Though Yami knew Marik ought to know, but it wasn't his horrifying secret, and Yugi just seemed so innocent…

The two tossed around instances of Bakura's idiosyncrasies, hoping to catch Yami's reaction. Finally, a knowledgeable Marik stated the incident with Bakura in the school stalls a few months ago, similar to Yami's experience with Bakura in the same stalls, leaving off what both Marik and Yami knew as the sound of sliced open human flesh.

Yami clenched his jaw. And Bakura was making exactly which of those cuts during those two instances in the bathroom stalls. He jumped up, unable to hold back the emotion leaking out the corners of his eyes. Yami ran up the stairs to one of the rooms Solomon Mouto had granted him at the beginning of this weird return to life.

And this, self mutilation must have been how Bakura was dealing with it. Yami set himself on his bed, ascertain Marik wasn't too far behind. He only hoped Yugi remained downstairs as the tears flowed freely from his eyes.

"What the hell, Yami?" Marik, as promised, appeared with a hand to the wooden panel door.

Yami let his tears continue to flow, hidden underneath his haphazard bangs. He refused to look into Maik's eyes, alight surely with the knowledge of what must have happended between former Pharaoh and thief. "I knew you'd follow."

"Yeah, well you're lucky Yugi didn't also," Marik crossed his arms, but allowed Yami the moment for unchecked emotion, before the smallest of the three came up, surely not far behind.

"Good."

"He's not stupid, you know," stated Marik, more as a warning as he heard Yugi's footsteps.

A glare from Yami.

"Or naive," Marik added.

"Or innocent," the third voice of Yugi re-joined the conversation. Yami attempted to hide his tears behind his hands, to which Yugi removed Yami's hands, and enveloped Yami in a hug. "Come on, whatever happened today, you need to talk about it, whether Marik knows about it or not. And whatever you tell him won't break me, I promise."

At that, Yami divulged the happenings of the afternoon to the two participants in his bedroom, a much calmer end of their day then the Bakura apartment.

…

"You're drinking that? It's already boiling," Bakura grouched as a greeting. He threw himself on the sofa, grabbing a few sheets of paper off the coffee table, and proceeded to fan himself as sweat continued to drip down places sweat should not drip.

Ryou looked at Bakura properly, scowling when he noticed Bakura still in outdoor shoes. "The genkan, Bakura?" he suggested, some of Bakura's infamous sarcasm dripping off his words.

Bakura sat up at the tone. He glared, unable to remain passive with his mind still reeling from everything that happened with Yami. He reached down, plucked a shoe off his foot, and threw it across the kitchen. Ryou ducked, holding the book over his head as a shield. He gave Bakura a look that conveyed: really? He tossed the other shoe, satisfied as it landed right inside the genkan, near its mate.

He flopped back against the couch, too sticky hot to be bothered with escaping to his bedroom. "Bad day?" Ryou asked. Bakura rolled his eyes over to look at Ryou, who gazed at him, eyebrows knitted, then rolled his eyes back to the ceiling. You could say that.

He shrugged. Ryou returned to reading his book, and the room was silent save for the paper cracking as Ryou turned a page. "I picked up your room," he commented off handedly.

"Why?" Bakura demanded, shifting on the couch to stare at Ryou as he flipped another page unaware of the venom in Bakura's eyes. He, however, looked up when Bakura spoke again, "Why the fuck would you go in my room?"

Ryou snapped the book closed. "Because it's disgusting! Clothes everywhere, leftover dishes strewn about, stains from god-knows-what…" he ranted.

Bakura paused. Stains? The only stains he was cognizant of, were the crusty dark brown ones that dotted his floor when he had bled too quickly. "Stay the fuck out of my room!" he roared, spittle dripping from his mouth.

Ryou watched him leap from the couch, still flushed from the walk home in the humid mugginess, when a thought popped in his head, causing him to forget the rest of his rant. "Why are you wearing long sleeves in this heat?" A valid question as students had taken to wearing their summer uniforms to school, technically against the rules, but only the strictest teachers enforced it, as they also donned lighter clothing.

Bakura turned around. He faced Ryou with an intensity and anger Ryou hadn't seen since his challenges against Yugi. He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and seemed to reconsider all in the same instant. His shoulders sagged in an admission of defeat. He nearly whispered, "Don't think about it."

Ryou watched Bakura walk off. He heard Bakura's bedroom door close with a click, then the latched as Bakura locked it. Once again, the house was silent, but Ryou could no longer enjoy his novel. He tapped his fingers along the spine of the closed book, pondering the entity that had been the spirit of the Millennium Ring.

Bakura, safely tucked behind his closed and locked door, relaxed the card protector, letting a single razor blade drop into his waiting palm.

…


	27. Weekend From Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Remember, schools in Japan met for half days on Saturdays, especially before the new millennium.

Chapter 27: Weekend From Hell

The next day, Saturday, dawned as hellishly as Bakura could have figured. He had wiled hours away in his room as he heard the sounds of Ryou headed to bed—likely without eating, but also without purging, so Bakura couldn’t quite bring it in himself to care much. The looming knowledge that someone knew about his cutting made him want to do it even more. What could possibly come of it at this point? With a sigh and a quickly retrieved blade, Bakura sliced two small, barely bleeding cuts in the meat of his upper arm. He tended to not like cutting on his upper arms. The ‘feel’ wasn’t there, and it seemed he had to cut deeper to feel the same satisfaction. With that thought, Bakura cut slightly deeper wounds into his shoulder.

He shrugged on a black long sleeve tee underneath his open uniform. A move that screamed rebellious in the strict Japanese culture, but frankly, he just didn’t want to worry about potential blood stains to clean up later. He could also blame the art classes for his clothing choices, he supposed. Minami was still having the students work on self portraits to hang on Cultural Day, which, Bakura calculated, was about week and a half away, to Bakura’s worsening dislike of anything he attempted for a self portrait.

Yes, today, along with his not-neutral conversation with the idiot Pharaoh or his angry outburst at Ryou to contend with, today was looking to be a stellar school day. His only consolation was today was a half day, then he could hole himself in his room in peace.

Ryou, one of his smaller feats of the day, approached him with a plate of okonomiyaki, pan-fried cabbage and carrot pancake, and not the breakfast Bakura was expecting of the day or of Ryou. Not long ago, at one of the many hangouts with the Moutos and their myriad of friends, Joey had brought take-out okonomiyaki. Ryou had outright refused.

Ryou had stumbled through a thirty second awkward explanation that it could be a trigger food to him that day, to which Joey had apologized to Bakura’s confusion. Bakura had watched the quick conversation that transpired with confusion. He knew Joey was one of Ryou’s friends, but he always seemed at the core with Ryou’s eating disorder—a connection Bakura couldn’t figure out.

But today was a week later, and Ryou, who should be angry with him after last night was serving up one of his blatantly stated fear foods and one of Bakura’s favorite junk foods in modern Japan.

“Why?” the single syllable inquiry slipped out before Bakura’s brain processed he should apologize, and by the time he drummed up enough courage, the moment eclipsed, and any apology soured in Bakura’s gut, as Ryou simply explained his therapist’s intent for Ryou to share a fear food with someone he trusted.

Bakura did, in fact, choke on the shredded fish flakes on top of the mayo and teriyaki sauce dressing each pancake. Well bully if he didn’t feel like an asshole with Ryou’s sweet temperance.

“Too many?” Ryou asked, face scrunching in concern at the potential of too much fish flakes. Again with the saccharine domesticated individual Ryou was by nature. The bastard in Bakura smirked as he remembered just why taking advantage of Ryou had been so easy; the human in him, cringed.

“It’s good,” the closest to an apology Bakura could handle over breakfast, well, without returning to a blade. “I like it.”

Ryou smiled. He took a bite, and all seemed forgiven in apartment 801.

…

Homeroom ended and another cruel art class began. Cruel: an apt descriptor if only not an expletive. Bakura was fast beginning to dread the class with Minami constantly asking the students about their progress on their self portraits. Or maybe it was because she felt the need to check on his personal progress, which was deplorable.

“Draw yourself. It can be abstract to photo realistic—it’s all up to you,” Minami had said brightly long before Yami had figured out his secret, or rather before he stupidly had reacted so badly his cutting had been exposed.

Bakura barely repressed a sneer of self loathing. All he wanted to do was take the darkest colored pencil on his desk and scribble out the nonsense of his facial structure he had begun to sketch. It made no sense why he couldn’t just draw himself. Was it his modern appearance? No, not exactly.

Right before he had punched the mirror in Ryou and his bathroom, he had felt exactly like this, like a spiraling black pit of ugly. And it wasn’t based on his looks like Ryou and his eating disorder—so the psychology lesson had attempted to elucidate the students. Just like Minami appeared to elucidate some sort of artistic charisma from him. Again.

“I see you’re taking the photo realism route based on your sketch,” Minami stated from just behind Bakura’s desk. Fuck! That woman had the ability to pop up from seemingly nowhere. Bakura swore he saw Tristan jump once or twice, conveniently in the direction of Miho, but jump nonetheless.

Bakura absently redrew the contour of his head. He shrugged.

“What are you going to use to shade yourself?”

Maybe he wouldn’t bother, Bakura thought sourly. Leave himself as blank as he felt half the time. Times where he stared listlessly at the ceiling paint swirls, or simply sat, staring out at noting, doing nothing. A shrug wouldn’t suffice this time, so he muttered the first thing that came to mind: the colored pencils he had grabbed at random at the beginning of class.

Luckily he was forgotten momentarily as Yami asked loudly if he could be excused to the nurses’ office. Minami nodded, and Bakura watched the Pharaoh abruptly depart the room. Well, that was certainly strange. Yami had been quite well the day before during the conversation he would rather never repeat in the park.

“I’m not feeling so well, either,” Bakura said, dropping the box of colored pencils he had been holding as a shading decision. Minami simply gestured, but her eyes conveyed a sort of knowledge she could only have pieced together based on coincidence.

…

Yami sat on an empty cot in the nurse’s office. Upon seeing Bakura, he hastily wiped his eyes, and turned away from Bakura. Bakura stilled. Was he? Could he?

“Are you…crying?” Not quite a shot in the dark, as Yami’s eyes continued to leak tears, even after his attempt to hide his emotional state.

Yami plainly spoke, an opposition to the tremor in his voice. “I’m allowed to be upset, Bakura.”

Bakura flinched against the sensation of guilt creeping into his stomach. He scratched at the back of his neck, wishing he could walk away from whatever this was becoming. “Um, why? That is, are you okay…?”

A chuckle from Yami. He swiped at the tears, which, thankfully, seemed to be halting. “I’ll be okay. I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be,” Bakura folded his arms as he sat roughly on an adjoining cot in the thankfully empty nurses’ office. The thin cot’s legs screeched against linoleum. Yami glanced up with a scrunched up expression.

“You don’t think!? Bakura, your cutt—”

“I’m fine!” Bakura nearly shouted.

Yami gave Bakura another one of those weird expressions, where his eyes lightened as if another round of tears wasn’t far behind. “Your arms say something else,” Yami said, sarcasm dampening the odd expression into something more baleful.

Bakura crossed his arms, turning away from Yami. “Well, you don’t need to cry over it.”

Yami plunged his index fingers into the corners of his eyes as moisture collected once again. “Don’t I? Maybe somebody should? In fact, you should!”

“I don’t cry.” Deadpan.

“Ever?” Silence descended upon the two.

Yami tried and failed to grab Bakura’s hands. He caught Bakura’s gaze with his own. “Not even when your village…?”

Bakura’s hand automatically went to his pocket, where the card protector, san card, but replete blades, lay. Anger narrowed his eyes to near slits. “Some of us, Pharaoh, can control ourselves.”

“You were a child!” Then, voice still thick with his crying jag mixed with ire as Yami realized just what Bakura had said, retorted, “I see your control is doing you wonders!”

Bakura whirled around, back facing Yami. “Stay the fuck out of my business!” He stomped off, wondering why he had bothered following Yami in the first place.

…

That afternoon, Bakura cast an eye out of the crack in his door, down the hallway, watching Ryou in his room holding a quiet conversation on his mobile. He strained to hear the words Ryou said, but he got the general drift that it was not going to end well. He flinched at the sound of the sharp crack of a fist connecting with a wall.

Creeping out of his bedroom to observe, he saw Ryou punching numbers in his phone, shaking his opposite hand. Bakura saw the slightly red knuckles on Ryou’s hand, and felt a momentary connection, which dissipated as he recalled how rarely Ryou resorted to self inflicted violence.

“Yes, I got your message, father,” he said into the phone, pacing as he spoke and wringing his hands through his long hair. “I know, I should’ve called later, but—”

Ryou turned abruptly, and Bakura ducked behind the cover of a solid wall, before peering out of the corner of his eye at Ryou’s distressed expression. “I know your work is very important. I know,” he paused, turned, and paced towards the far wall.

“I do appreciate the phone. Sorry, I’m just disappointed I won’t get to see you,” Ryou said in an odd pitch after a long moment.

“No, there isn’t anything in particular I want for Christmas.” He sat down on his bed, reaching over into the bedside tape drawer for a hair band.

“You too, mmm-hmm. Goodbye.” He flipped the phone shut. In one motion, he reached around with his hands and pulled his hair into a ponytail. Bakura returned to his own room, realizing Ryou did not plan to move from his bed for awhile.

When Bakura sat across from Ryou at the table for dinner, he found Ryou toying with his food, picking bits up with his chopsticks and dropping them back to the plate, not actually consuming more than a couple bites of vegetable.

“You gonna eat any of that?” Bakura asked menacingly as he stabbed the thinner of the chopstick into a chunk of meat crudely. Ryou dropped his chopsticks, jerking his head up to meet Bakura’s twisted features.

He returned the glare, grabbing his dishes almost filled with uneaten leftovers, and left the table. “No, I’m not hungry,” he said, unconcerned about Bakura’s reaction to the overt lie. He scraped his dishes into the garbage can, and set them in the sink, just as the home phone rang.

He picked up the phone as Bakura listened in, picking at his food, appetite diminished. “Kaiba wants us to meet him?”

He grabbed a notepad from the counter and wrote down the information shared with him. “He wants to see us in his office? Tomorrow?” Bakura speared a piece of roasted pumpkin, using the other chopstick to wedge it down, back on his plate. He grimaced at the prospect of seeing Kaiba. He cracked his fingers at the thought.

“Okay, we’ll plan to meet him tomorrow,” he said and hung up the phone. The anger that clouded his face had been wiped away by the time Ryou relayed Yugi’s message.

…

Yami, Yugi, Ryou, and Bakura, plus Marik as a new addition, stood across from Seto Kaiba, similar to their very first meeting back in late March: Bakura in his trademark long sleeved top and ugly disposition, Ryou reflecting the living dead in his sleep deprived state, Yami’s eyes flickering nervously, gaze falling on each member of the makeshift group, with Yugi only expressing mild concern at the mention of a meeting. Marik, similar to Yami, snuck looks at Bakura, his former paradigm shattering as he visualized the multitude of scars and cuts under his sleeves.

“Why did you want to see us?” Yugi asked with a large smile, making him appear younger than his current age.

Seto Kaiba shifted the paperwork on his desk as a reminder of the real reason he asked the five individuals he and Mokuba had helped to his office, quickly fabricating a pseudo excuse, a curtain in which to cloak his machinations. He waved a hand at the obviously distressed group of teenagers, an indication to take the proffered seating.

Bakura stood near the door, face impassive, but eyes darting for the freedom promised just past his closed door. Seto hid a smirk around his coffee mug as he drank deeply from the cup as he noticed the former thief king scratch at the skin hidden by his sleeves. The pieces were falling into place.

“With next week’s career planning meetings and upcoming graduation, I wondered what the game plan was?” he asked diplomatically.

“Graduation?” Marik queried, squinting his eyes out the window, down at the barren November landscape visible in the urban sprawl. “Isn’t that not for another four months?” He mentally assessed the Japanese school year.

“Yes,” Kaiba growled impatiently. “But entrance exams are coming up in the next two months. How do you plan to pay for university? What career field do you think you’ll be working?” He glanced especially at Yami, Bakura, and Marik.

Bakura scratched intently at one of the fresher cuts on his arm, dragging his fingernail across the expanse of the cut as Kaiba quick fired questions that likely would be brought up during the infamous career planning with Kobayashi next week. He was unable to articulate any future life goals. Hell, going through the motions proved hard enough.

He removed his hand from his sleeve, feeling the burn of two icy blue eyes staring at him. Kaiba stroked the papers on his desk, calculating.

“You have a point,” Yami said, taking in the message Kaiba was trying to present. “We do have to start making decisions.”

The meeting continued in that manner, the teenagers tossing out potential ideas and opinions regarding further education. Bakura flexed his fingers, itching to pluck a razor blade from his pocket, if only for the comfort it would bring.

Kaiba held up the stack of papers, medical records of one Bakura Mouto, effectively silencing the last tendrils of chatter. “One more thing,” he said as he gently tapped the top most sheet. “I had my secretary fax me these.” He held up the paper so everyone in the room could see the printed name. He grabbed the paper from the back, flipping it over to reveal an email from Dr. Satou. “He requested a follow up appointment, so I looked into what specifically he treated you for.”

He stared directly at Bakura with his sharp eyes. Bakura stood ram rod still, hardly daring to breathe lest his words confirmed Kaiba’s suspicions. “He treated you for an infection?” he asked, then faced Ryou. “You implied it was for a fever.”

Ryou’s eyes crinkled as he tried to process the information on little sleep. “I thought it was a fever.”

Marik jumped up. He grabbed the email from Kaiba, who gave him a nasty sneer, but allowed the paper to be snatched from his hands, and skimmed the body of the email message. “Thanks for your concern, but we aren’t interested,” he said flatly.

At Marik’ tone and instant dismissal, Bakura’s blood ran cold. He could hazard a guess what was typed in that email. Marik’s indifference to the information told him that someone—he fixed Yami with a poisonous glare—had informed him.

The last thing he saw before he bolted from Kaiba’s office was the identical glances of confusion on Ryou’s and Yugi’s faces.

…

Yami followed, dashing madly after Bakura. As he caught up with Bakura near a public toilet intended for employees of Kaiba Corporation, his mind spit images of the third weekend in July when he had watched over an ill Bakura. The doctor had not mentioned an infection, but the medical record proved he had, in fact, given Bakura a prescription for one.

He prevented Bakura from locking himself in a stall, remembering Marik’s encounter with Bakura in the school toilets, by sticking his foot in the bottom of the doorway. Bakura let out a low scream, already holding onto the card protector. In his fisted hand, Yami saw the reflective metal blades.

“You had an infected cut,” Yami stated.

Bakura held a blade in his fingers, the card protector jammed into his pocket. “Yes,” he said dully.

“Can’t you see this is a problem?” Yami fell silent as Bakura shoved up his sleeve with the back of his wrist, once more exposing the mutilated flesh. Yami said nothing as Bakura looked down at his arm, inspecting. He followed Bakura’s gaze, letting out a gasp when he spotted the two raised scars. His face twisted with disgust. “Bakura,” he breathed.

“I don’t have a problem,” Bakura lifted his eyes to Yami’s.

Yami smirked. “Prove it, then.”

Bakura clenched his teeth, cognizant of the unspoken promise to inform Ryou or Kaiba if he did not. He ripped the fabric of his shirt down to cover his arm, and returned the blade to the card protector.

Yami’s eyes flashed. He held out a hand. “I think I should take those,” he said, puffing his chest out, self importantly.

Bakura didn’t bother responding as he put the protector and the blades back into his pocket.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> I never thought I would write a Saturday, but I did for the plot. I just only mentioned homeroom and art.
> 
> Okonomiyaki: referred to as Japanese pizza for reasons unknown to me. It’s more like a cabbage and carrot pancake. Hokkaido and Osaka have different versions, but Ryou’s homemade version is likely similar to one I made recently: cabbage and carrot pancake, with teriyaki sauce, mayo, and bonito (fish) flakes. It was amazing, if I do say so.
> 
> Ryou phones his father in the early afternoon, which is early morning in Egypt. I used 1pm Tokyo time to 6am Cairo time. As an archeologist, it’s probably not too early, but maybe Ryou’s father likes to sleep late.


	28. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> If this chapter seems choppy, it probably is. I had to try to fit in a lot of information. I do apologize. We are nearing the ending, and frankly, every time it gets harder to write this story. Could I be, gasp, getting too old? Oh dear. Plus the topic is personally in nature, and can be triggering for me, and likely the readers.

Chapter 28: Confrontations  
...  
His arms ached slightly less since he actively tried to resist cutting himself, especially after Yami’s silent threat in the stall of Kaiba Corp’s toilets. Not to say he had stopped entirely (or lasted the entirely of the first night), but the greatly reduced sessions failed to procure enough blood or to satisfy the endless desire for controlled pain. Still, two days without his usual coping mechanism was more than enough to make him near lose his shit.

Bakura found himself almost spastically punching his arms where the cuts from before Kaiba Corp lay, leaving bruises in addition to healing cuts. The only good from his rushed departure from Kaiba’s sight was the group must have forgotten the specifics of his doctors record. No complaints from his end. Bakura mused as we walked home from another work day with Solomon, with Yami noticeably withdrawn. Again, no real complaints on Bakura’s end.

...

Over cups of steaming oolong tea, Bakura and Ryou sat on the couch and armchair respectively pretending to watch a game show. “We need a DVD player,” Ryou commented as the game show took an unexpected turn, and Bakura and Ryou witnessed something they both could have lived without viewing.

“Have your Dad buy you one, Bakura said, still in shock from the scene displayed for the nation to view on live television.

Ryou flopped his legs over the chair languidly. He took a sip of tea. “I would feel too guilty,” he said. “But it’s certainly tempting.” Ryou enunciated the last two words sharply as the insanity was repeated on catch up from commercial break.

Bakura snorted. As if anyone wanted a repeat performance.

Ryou glanced at him. “How is working at the shop going?”

Bakura lowered his tea mug to the coffee table. “Fine,” he said neutrally. The last few weeks working under Solomon Mouto was going fine. He worked away from the sniveling children that served as the majority of Turtle Game Shaop’s clientele, in the back, keeping inventory. Not every day, but most days, he usually ended up sitting across Yami as they worked silently, finishing up the majority of the paperwork before Bakura was released.

“He paid me,” Bakura said, still slightly shocked by Somolon’s actions earlier that day. He dug in his pocket to produce the small wad of yen notes 

Solomon had given both him and Yami.

“Thank you boys, for both your hard work,” Solomon had said, splitting 50,000 yen between the two. Yami’s eyes had widened and Bakura had stilled, dumbfounded.

“You don’t need to pay us,” Yami protested, as Bakura silently accepted his wad of bills. He had not been expecting any payment or reimbursement for his punishment. 

Solomon had merely laughed heartily. “Don’t you worry; you two are cheaper than inventory checks. I appreciate your dedication.”  
Bakura recounted the story to Ryou, who asked if he thanked Solomon. Bakura sort of half shrugged, allowing Ryou’s politeness assume the proper response. Bakura fluffed over his own surprise, choosing to fan the money at Ryou. 

“Think we could buy a DVD player with this?” he asked over the bill notes.

Ryou shook his head. “Try three times that, at best.” He leaned over to pick something from the floor. Bakura followed Ryou’s motions, freezing when he realized it was his card flat on the living room floor.

Bakura stuffed the money back into his pocket, and he was kneeling on the floor to pluck the card up before Ryou made an attempt to grab it.

Ryou blinked rapidly, as he tried to process what just happened. “Why do you carry that around,” he asked.

Bakura shoved the card into the pocket without the crumpled yen notes, and sulked. Ryou put a thumb to his lips. The mood had just spun a 180, flipping from conversational to defensive, and he could not fathom why, but he knew it had something to do with that card.

...

November third brought the school festival, along with a gale of rain mixed with ice. A definite reminder of the impending winter encroaching. Bakura scowled at his particular piece if artwork. In the end, he had gone with a self portrait in colored pencils, and he hated it. It hung mockingly in a row with other students’ works. As the parents and other students admired the other pieces of art, Bakura wrenched his sneering face, a sick reminder of his own twisted self, from the wall, and stuffed it in his bag, intent to throw it in the trash. 

Just like he was.

...

After sneaking away from the overly cheerful ambiance of the festivities, Bakura shivered against the cold that finally settled in Domino. He neglected to bring his coat, so he felt the cold clearly through the thin shirt he wore. He barely noticed the icy nips against his skin as his body practically demanded physical pain. He lashed out, propelling a fist into the jagged brick exterior of the school building. He swallowed down a yelp as pain exploded across his knuckles. That fucking hurt, burned across his nerve endings. He shook his hand, not wholly satisfied; he craved the thin instances of pain beading against his arms like the rungs in a ladder.

Nevertheless, the pain blooming in his hand calmed him enough. He walked across the back parking lot, feet carrying him to his favored spot, physical motions working faster than the niggling reminder as to why he should not head out that way. Less than a quarter hour later, Bakura slumped over on a bench, one hand curling to fist the protector, a hand placed on his shoulder told volumes of temporarily forgotten memory.  
Bakura wrenched his shoulder from the gently placed hand, the hand that belonged to that idiot Pharaoh with sad, pleading, begging eyes. “What?!” he snapped, anger boiling at being denied physical pain for the second time in less than an hour. 

“Are you alright?” Yami glanced at Bakura and his overstuffed school bag, then narrowed on the crumpled black and clear plastic peaking out of Bakura’s fist. “You were going to…” The accusation trailed off somewhere to die in Yami’s apprehension muddled thoughts. 

Bakura snarled. He dumped a blade surreptitiously in his palm before the Pharaoh had an opportunity to tear the protector out of his hand. Again. “To do what, Pharaoh?” he mocked. “To cut?” As silent affirmation to his own question, Bakura rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, is most heavily abused arm. He caught Yami’s horrified gaze. “Yes, yes I will,” he answered aloud.  
...

Distraught from another ugly confrontation with Bakura, Yami headed for the game shop. Maybe, just maybe it was time to get intervention from an adult. At the same time, he did not want to shatter the tenuous trust Bakura still seemed to find in him. He sighed as he opened the door to the front , game shop, entrance, only to find Solomon full attention on him. He held a small stack of papers. As Yami waled up to him, he saw the heading on the papers. They weren’t just papers, but print offs of his computer search history. And Solomon was looking at him with an expression befit of an older gentleman, whom understood the severity of the situation, but may not have enough personal experience.

“It’s not what you think, Grandpa, “ Yami said, not nervous—because he had nothing to be nervous about; this was a grandfather figure who cared very much for him and only wanted to make sure he was okay, and for the most part, Yami was.  
“I can show you my wrists,” Yami said, speaking slightly quickly, not giving Solomon a minute to misconstrue the situation.

“May I ask who this about, Yami? This is a serious thing,” Solomon said, when Yami paused to take a breath.

“Honestly, I’d like to consider the person a friend, but I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“They trust me.” Yami emphasized.

Solomon did not want to point fingers needlessly at his grandsons’ large friend group. At first he wondered if Ryou had developed into self mutilation after his stint with an eating disorder the year before. The boy had been looking a bit pallid recently.  
But he trusted both his grandsons, so he told Yami, “I hope when your friend comes to you for help, you are able to come to me as well. You shouldn’t bear the pressure of this on your own.”

Yami sniffed, to which Solomon came around the customer service desk, and engulfed Yami in a hug, “We’ll figure this out Yami, in time,” he said to the silently sobbing former Pharaoh.  
...

Career counseling came up in the next week, sooner than Bakura would have liked. He sat outside the teacher’s lounge feeling inadequately prepared. How was he supposed to know what he wanted to do with his life? Some days, just existing was more effort than not. Besides, he had been a thief in ancient Egypt; a thief was what he was and all he knew. Well, evidently the technology of today proved he was unable to keep up with his former occupation, but... Bakura let out a breath as the door slid open and his name was called.  
Bakura entered the room, wondering for a moment why such an ‘important decision that held bearing on the rest of his future’ was held in the communal teacher’s lounge. A smirk graced his lips, and Kobayashi, taking the bait, said shortly, “I hope your expression is an indication you have come to a decision about your future prospects.”

The smirk slipped away, and the real meeting started.

...

“Bakura!” Bakura was currently running away. Away from Marik, who was shouting down the school corridor, and Kobayashi. The meeting went about as unproductively and awful as Bakura figured, but then—then Koybayashi peered at Bakura above his glasses to ask in the warmest tone Bakura had ever heard from the stern homeroom teacher, ‘if he was alright’. Followed by an impromptu patronizing lecture that teachers were students too once, and he was concerned due to Bakura’s reluctance to bare his arms over the course of the summer.   
Of course Kobayashi thought it was abuse or domestic problems, but that did nothing to stop the bile creeping up his throat or the fluttering in his chest. So he did the only thing he could think of, and ran.

Only to be followed by Marik, who quickly caught up to him just outside the toilets.

“Bakura,” Marik said between gasps, “stop, please.”

Well, he had no intention of that. The only thing he wanted to was lock himself in a stall and cut himself bloody raw. Fuck Yami’s anger from Kaibab’s meeting or his weakly given assurance that he didn’t need to cut. He did, and dammit, he needed it right now.  
But a tan hand pressed sharply into his uniform, keeping him rooted just outside his redeemer. 

Bakura said nothing, however Marik filled the silence. “Look, Bakura, I know what you’re doing.”

And his heart skipped a beat. He should have told Marik to fuck off, or denied everything, but after the meeting with Kobayashi, he just didn’t have it in him to fend off another verbal assault, and Marik continued. “I could tell in the toilet a while back. You know my father carved the Pharaoah’s memories into my back. I-I know the sound of skin being sliced.”

Marik looked in Bakura’s eyes. “I just couldn’t believe it.”

Bakura wrenched his shoulder from Marik’s grasp, “Yeah, well what do you know? Obviously I don’t want to talk about it!”  
He stormed back to the classroom, leaving Marik to do nothing, except attend his own career counseling.

...

Bakura made it until lunchtime after Marik’s half-baked confrontation, before he excused himself to the toilets to cut. As he leaned against the stall wall, watching blood pool in a single line, he reassured himself that Ryou, at least, still kept down his lunch and dinner. The knot in his chest loosened. He wiped away the drying blood, flushed the blood stained toilet paper away, and exited.  
Joey looked up as Bakura returned to the classroom, where they had taken to eating lunch since the temperatures dropped. “Where’d you go?” he accused.

“The toilet,” Bakura said, letting sarcasm bleed into his tone. “Problem with that?” He slid into his seat, catching the narrowed eyes of Yami beside him.

“Did you go to…” Yami trailed off. He fumbled with his bento lid, not meeting Bakura’s eyes.

Bakura scowled at Yami’s correct assumption. He snarled under his breath, “To what, Pharaoh? Wank?” He smirked as Yami dug into his bento, blushing. “If it pleases you, no I did not.”

He twisted his head in the other direction, scanning the room for Ryou, who sat with Yugi. He clenched the hand of his injured arm into a fist, forcing the muscle to flex and sending tingles of pain down the nerve endings. Yami followed his gaze, noticing how little Ryou was eating.  
“Is he seeing his therapist?” Yami asked around a mouthful of rice. Bakura wanted to punch Yami square in the face for having enough audacity to speak so ignorantly. 

“Yes,” Bakura replied, answering the spoken concern and ignoring the silent: is he okay?  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> A DVD player cost about $700 in the USA in 1998. $500 is, in my lazy conversion, approximately 500 yen, so it would be $250 for two months of a couple hours of work for untaxed, teenagers. You know, I should probably looked up the minimum wage in 1998, but I didn’t, and we all want this chapter out, yes?
> 
> November 3rd in Japan in Culture Day at most Japanese high schools. Fun fact: this particular one fell on a Tuesday. 
> 
> Yami offers to show his wrists, because in 1998 Japan, self harm was called ‘wrist-cut syndrome’, from the translation of my manga Confidential Confessions volume 1. I’m not sure if that’s factually correct to real life, but every manga I’ve read, the self harming character cuts their wrists. Cut and Life are two other mangas if you’re interested.


	29. Eating Disorder Origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> One chapter. Dear god, how am I going to finish this? It’s a mystery to even me, dear readers. Hahaha. I’m open to suggestions. Except shipping. I’m afraid I don’t mix mental health and teh sexy times.

Chapter 29: Eating Disorder Origins  
...  
Autumn faded into winter by middle November; the brisk cold that kept Ryou, especially, bundled up in numerous layers, had occurred almost suddenly. Bakura struggled to adjust, sometimes forgetting to grab a long sleeved shirt for warmth, rather than the one with the thinnest fabric.

Ryou plopped down next to Bakura on the couch. Bakura stiffened at the uncharacteristic action from the other boy. Normally, Ryou curled himself into (surely) painful distortion, preferring the rigid enclosure of the armchair than the wide space of the couch. The last time Bakura recalled Ryou sitting on the couch for any length of time was in summer...right after Bakura had confronted Ryou’s eating habits. A sardonic grin twisted his lips at the thought.   
And look where they were now, near winter, with snow lazily twirling in the mid-November breeze outside the apartment window.   
Ryou reeked of vomit. It was a scent Bakura had become familiar with over the past ten months, but he wasn’t able to break down the stench into base descriptions. Acid was too weak an adjective, and it certainly wasn’t just the smell of Ryou’s lunch that assaulted his nostrils. He scrunched up his nose, but allowed Ryou to speak. Maybe articulating his concerns would keep his head out of a toilet.  
Ryou curled his legs up to his chest, and Bakura sank into the couch at the familiar action. Ryou spoke over his knees, his voice slightly muffled by the khaki pants he wore. “Yami told me you talked about me,” he said, voice dying off much to Bakura’s annoyance. 

“We did.” Short, brief, concise, and hopefully indicative of his mental probing.   
Ryou’s shoulders hunched up, another facet to his already awkward sitting arrangement. “It wasn’t always like this.” He threaded his fingers together, flexing and releasing the digits in what looked like a painful pantomime of cracking ones knuckles. As pain flickered, a constant, up and down Bakura’s arm, Bakura wasn’t prone to say anything about Ryou’s coping method of choice. “I don’t even like doing it,” Ryou muttered.

Ryou flicked his head up, surprising Bakura with the hard look in his eyes. “Who would like this? It’s gross. I eat and eat and I can’t stop. Then I feel so disgusting and full and awful...I have to make it go away.”

“Couldn’t you just eat normally?” Bakura asked, genuinely confused. This eating disorder Ryou had still didn’t make an iota of sense to him. In his past, he ate because he was hungry. He enjoyed eating. Hell, eating was sometimes a luxury, so he had a bit of difficulty understanding why someone would choose not to partake in eating (especially with food so readily available).  
Ryou’s eyes flashed, and he outright glared at Bakura. “It’s not about that! Don’t you think I would if I could!? I hate it! My throat is raw. I feel like shit. I have this fucking awful pain thing at my jaw—” He stopped mid-rant. He shook his head. “I can feel the damage eating and puking is doing to me. I don’t like it, but I can’t stop.”

Tears sprung to Ryou’s eyes. Bakura shifted. He placed a hand on Ryou’s trembling shoulders and tried to suppress his own shudders at where this conversation was heading. “I’m sorry,” Bakura mumbled weakly. He loathed the hitch in his own voice.

After a minute, Ryou lifted his head again, and Bakura was grateful to see the absence of tears. “I’ve only been doing this for a little over a year,” he confessed. “In fact, I didn’t start really purging until this spring.”

“What did you do then?” Bakura knitted his forehead.

Ryou tapped a finger against the side of his face as he ruminated over a year in the past. “Well, I guess I mostly didn’t eat.”

Something unpleasant niggled at Bakura as he, himself, inquired about the specifics of Ryou’s eating disorder. Regardless, he continued with his questioning. “Why? Why would you do something different?”

“I dunno. Let me think.” Ryou rolled his eyes to the ceiling, eyes somewhat glazed as he tried to think that far back. “I think,” he paused. A smile plastered his face, when Bakura prompted him for information after a moment of silence. He shook his head. “You know what, it’s not important.”

“Yes it is,” Bakura snapped. 

The vehement response dragged a reply out of Ryou before he could process the ramifications. “Whenever you possessed me, I would wake up so hungry, I would just eat whatever I could find. It wasn’t such a big deal because it didn’t happen often, but after Millennium World, I couldn’t stop eating.” Ryou’s expression shifted to disgust, as he remembered event from late last summer. “It got so bad. I felt so disgusting, so I made myself stop eating.”

A few months over a year, summer 1997: that meant Ryou’s eating disorder was because of him. The sensation that had been niggling at him dropped a cold weight in his gut. Bakura jumped up, surprising Ryou into glancing down at him. He caused Ryou’s eating disorder! “Bakura?!” Ryou called. He stood from his balled up position, unable to run after Bakura for a moment until the feeling returned to his extremities. 

...

In that moment, Bakura snapped. To say the anger drained away would be too simplistic and far too easy, rather the emotion churned steadily. So he ducked his head and stalked out of the room, banishing his rage within the four walls of his bedroom. Not that his space was any more his than the rest of the apartment. He sank to the bed, already diving at his well worn and empty card protector.

The door burst open and Bakura hastily shoved the protector back in his pocket as an angry Ryou loomed in the doorway—the scene an effigy as their roles reversed. “What is your problem?” Ryou hissed. Bakura caught a whiff of vomit still lingering.

He let the anger lick up at his sides as he remembered all too clearly why he was pissed at Ryou (or himself, really). He swallowed the painful knob that lodged itself their after they had finished dinner, after Ryou announced his plans to take a bath (and puke). It had only been a month since Ryou’s relapse, and Bakura couldn’t handle the same shit he had to endure before August, and to know, it was his entire fault.

The reprieve had highlighted it. “I don’t have a problem!” Bakura shouted. “I’m not the one starving myself and puking up everything I do eat!”

Ryou materialized just in front of Bakura, having crossed the room sometime during Bakura’s internalization of the situation. He threw up his arms “Are you kidding me!? You’re always locking yourself up in here. Just what are you doing? You don’t talk to anyone; you don’t do anything—“

“Why should I?! I don’t like you’re fucking group of friends. You’re all so fucking perfect and high and mighty. Well fuck you!” Bakura interrupted Ryou mid-rant.

Ryou leaned forward. His narrowed eyes and screaming lips had been replaced with icy venom, and the next words he uttered were as cold as his demeanor. “Then leave. This is my apartment my father paid for for me. You’re just a free loader, anyway.”

The overwhelming course of emotions mostly brought on by the denial of a cutting session, spurred Bakura to continue speaking, to muck up the situation even more. “Fine.” He stood. “Fine then. That fucking fantastic!” He paced his room; Ryou remained where he had been in Bakura’s face. Bakura grabbed random clean articles of clothing and stuffed them in his school bag. On a whim, he shoved the sock of earnings from Solomon in the bag. “I’ll leave then, since it’s your goddamn apartment!”

With that final proclamation, Bakura stormed out, slamming both his bedroom door and the front door as he left. Ryou sank to his knees, mind reeling as his thoughts tried to process what had just happened.  
…

By that point, Bakura had slipped on his shoes and raced down the back stairwell and out of the apartment. Bakura’s sneakers pounded against the frozen ground as he ran off in the direction of the play park. His eyes smarted with tears that froze and stung at his cheeks before they could dribble pathways to his jaws. His chest burned, and he forced himself to keep running as his leg muscles spasmed at the sudden flight.

Fingers curling at his wrist underneath his sleeve forced vision to return to him. Bakura stopped suddenly. He wrenched his arm from the fingers’ grasp and glowered at the idiot who dared to grab at him. He found himself looking into the violet eyes of Yugi. “Fuck off,” he said, an automatic response.

Yugi’s eyes narrowed as he allowed Bakura to rip his arm from his grasp. He had been heading back to his home at the Turtle Game Shop when he had seen Bakura flying past him on the sidewalk. Rushing after him for a good five minutes, Yugi was short of breath and Bakura was practically choking for air. He said nothing as Bakura shot off an expletive. As the force of the sudden halting wrenched the breath from Bakura’s lungs, Yugi firmly grasped both of Bakura’s wrists, his fingers curling under the fabric of the thin long sleeved tee shirt he wore.

He felt his eyes widen as he saw Bakura’s eyes imitate his own. Before Bakura could shrug off his hold, Yugi felt the fine ridges under the pads of his fingers. Through the cold wind, Yugi heard a hiss of pain. He flipped Bakura’s wrists up and let go of one arm to push up the sleeve. 

“What are doing? What is this?” Yugi asked as he took in the rows and rows of cuts lining Bakura’s arm (and likely continuing on the other arm). Even as the question left his mouth, he knew what Bakura was doing. He had known since early October when Yami had returned to the house worked up about Bakura, but the epiphany had settled amongst less relevant thoughts in his mind as the weeks wore on.

Bakura jerked his arm back and hastily ripped his sleeves over his hands. “It’s nothing,” he muttered and walked off.

“Bakura,” Yugi stared up into Bakura’s eyes, “You know it’s not nothing. You don’t have to talk about it, but, you nned to not be alone right now.”

Bakura seethed. “What would you know!?”

Yugi simply shook his head, his all consuming goodness stopping Bakura’s verbal onslaught, and subdued, Bakura followed.  
...

The two entered the Mouto residence, sliiped their shoes off, and Bakura mutely followed Yugi to the living room. Where Joey, Tristan and Tea awaited, much to Bakura’s displeasure.

Joey jumped up, “What’s he doing here?” Tristan followed suit, but Yugi help up a hand. “Leave him be guys.”

And what would have been said was prevented by a simple few words and a firm look from Yugi. “Yami is downstairs in the store,” Yugi offered, seemingly omniscient about the strange sort of relationship former Pharaoh and former thief had created. Bakura nodded, heading to the last, and only, person he wanted to talk to.

...

“I need your help,” Bakura said to Yami, interrupting the silence of the shop. 

Yami, losing track of how many boxes of action figures Solomon had ordered for the Christmas shoppers he had been calculating, entertained Bakura’s statement. “With what?”

Bakura inhaled deeply, and Yami, confused by Bakura’s hesitation, actually paid attention. Since the incident last month, they rarely talked, and never had Bakura asked for Yami’s opinion. “I need to borrow some money,” he said in a rush.  
Yami spent a few seconds, decoding what Bakura had said, watching him slump as time stretched out. Fully comprehending, he spluttered, “What? For what?” 

“Just until next time,” Bakura flipped a piece of paper, which he had folded in half a multitude of times until it was the size of a Duel Monster card, eerily similar to his card protector. 

Yami stood suddenly. “Be right back,” he called on his way out of the back room, having just remembered something important. When he returned a minute later, he glimpsed Bakura staring at the same piece of paper, only he had unfolded it. Through the creases, he made out an ad for a top of the line DVD player. He recalled Yugi burning with envy every time he saw a commercial advertising the newest video format.

“That’s expensive,” he commented and held up the Change of Heart card. Bakura’s eyes widened as he grabbed the card, smiling slightly as he rubbed the tip of a finger over the angelic half.

Yami scooted his chair closer to Bakura’s. “Why do you want a DVD player?” 

Bakura shook his head, still absorbed by the card. “Not for me. For Ryou,” he muttered.

Yami added up the money he had earned working with Bakura at the shop. Solomon never paid on a schedule, but he usually provided twenty-five grand at a time. Yami glanced at the price of the DVD player advertised, and found his total earnings fell one payment short.

He placed a finger to his lips, considering. “Do you plan on giving it to Ryou?”

“Of course,” Bakura snapped. He crumpled the advertisement in his fist. “Why else would I buy it?”

Yami pursed his lips as his chest tightened, his heart swelling and bursting. He reached into his pocket for the wad of yen notes Solomon had given   
them when he had lead them to the back room as “early New Year’s pocket money.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said, holding the wad of bills out for Bakura to grab. 

Bakura paused, and then reached for the cash with trembling fingers, as if he expected Yami to change his mind and snatch it away at the last moment.   
When he closed his hand around the bills, he mumbled his appreciation. Bakura picked up his school bag from the floor by his chair and unearthed a large sock, which he untied the knot at the top. Yami saw the colorful bills from where he sat as Bakura stuffed Yami’s addition into it, once again knotting the sock.

“Have you spent any of that?” Yami asked, disbelief coloring his voice. He, himself, had spent the majority of his earnings, and only had a couple thousand yen left.

“No,” Bakura said as he picked up the inventory list and resumed working.

Yami placed a hand to his head, trying to wrap his head around this inconsistency. He never would’ve pegged Bakura as the type to hoard away his money, then blow it all on one item, one item for someone else. For Ryou. “Why are you buying him a DVD player?”

Bakura glanced at Yami from underneath his fringe, obscuring his eyes. He said nothing, and neither did Yami. As Bakura pushed his bangs out of his line of sight, Yami found himself falling into murky brown orbs, tunneling through volumes of despair and hopelessness. Bakura’s lips cracked apart, like one of the cuts on his arm, and out trickled, “He’s not eating, Yami.” 

The voice that sprung from Bakura’s lips was so broken, so heavy with suppressed emotion, that Yami barely noticed Bakura had referred to him by his new alias, by his name, for the first time. “And when he does eat, he pukes it all up.”

Yami patted Bakura’s arm, frowning when Bakura flinched, releasing a low hiss through gritted teeth. He leaned forward. “What about you? How are you doing?”

Bakura didn’t have to answer with words; the look in his eyes, the same overwhelming despair that liquefied the deep brown color of Bakura’s eyes similar to a droplet of water against fresh paints, conveyed everything.  
...


	30. Release

Chapter 30: Release

...

His lips quivered.

Bakura bit his knuckles as his eyes burned. The way the Pharaoh was looking at him, the cock eyed glint, the, the.

“Are you alright?” a pointed question, one Bakura had been fending off for months, from Marik, from Ryou, from Yami, even from himself.

Bakura scraped his teeth across his knuckles, as his chest constricted. He found himself unable to take a deep breath.

A soft voice, “Stop that. You’ll make it worse.” Kind tones wrapped around short words. A command: which Bakura found himself unconsciously following.

It was sudden. Without the pain to focus on, everything came crumbling down.

Like paint, his eyes spilled over, and before he knew it, Bakura was full on crying. Yami stood up, and embraced Bakura. Awkwardly at first, arms akimbo, then fingers lacing entwining into Bakura’s, Yami led the still sobbing Bakura over to old tattered couch in the far corner, and allowed Bakura to just cry. Yami made those stereotypical soothing sounds, and Bakura found they did, in fact, help.

To feel. For the first time, all the emotions of the past year came welling up in short, ragged gasps and the tears flowed. Unbridled pain. Anguish. And Yami held him all the same. Bakura cried until the tears stopped and his breaths evened out.

When the tears ended, Bakura jumped back, scrubbing his eyes furiously.

“Sorry,” a low mutter.

“You needed that. That is why your arms look like that,” Yami gestured towards Bakura’s covered arms. A stiff nod was his response. Better than nothing.

“Well,” Yami started, only to be interrupted by Solomon.

“I had an inkling it was you, Bakura,” Solomon said. Bakura jerked his head upward, heart racing. What had, what could have Yami said about him?

“I didn’t tell him,” immediate denial from Yami.

“You don’t get to my age without some common sense, boys,” Solomon said. He sat upon one of the empty seats, facing himself squarely in Bakura’s sight.

“I came across research Yami had been doing about you, and put some clues together.” Solomon reached out to brush Bakura’s hand. “I had never heard about self mutilation, but I could connect the dots.”

His face grew serious, and something in Bakura calmed for the first time in months. His secret was exposed, and the world had not ended along with the discovery.

...

Bakura was invited up to the living room of the Mouto house, but Bakura preferred the quiet of the game shop backroom. The familiarity of the room calmed his jangled nerves. Yami said something about sending the rest of the group home. Bakura heard the distant voices of Joey, Tristan, and Tea parting, but he was too consumed by the impending reveal to Ryou, Solomon had insisted upon. It turned out the old man wasn’t just a pretty face.

Once he realized the situation in regards to both Bakuras, he insisted upon therapy. Rather, a return to therapy for Ryou, and Bakura was bound for the same. This proclamation did not fill Bakura with as much dread as he thought. Frankly, it was nice to not have to hide his habit. It was soothing to know his self mutilation was not constantly in secret.

The call of dread, rather, the call to Kaiba was taken care of by an involved Solomon. “This is not something you boys should be worrying about, a resolute tone. Solomon calmly spoke down the line to Kaiba or to one of Kaiba’s subordinates about the possibility for therapy referrals in a way Bakura had never thought of. It seemed everything fell into place with the swiftness of open communication.

“Yes, and I am speaking to Dr. Satou regarding Bakura Mouto,” A pause. Bakura’s ears pricked at the name of the solemn doctor with scars similar to his own.

“He made a request for a therapist, excellent. We’ll be in touch then.” The doctor had already put the referral in for him; Bakura felt like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. All these difficulties seemed to ease as he realized Dr. Satou had been after his best interest after all.

“Well,” Solomon said to Bakura after hanging up the phone, “I do believe, medically, everything is secure. Now, how about we give Ryou a call?”.

...

“Bakura!” Ryou entered the room, mindlessly discarding his jacket as he crossed the length of the game store. “I was so worried about you.”

Bakura felt that thing curl up in his chest again. Ryou had worried about him? He shrugged, not trusting his voice.

Solomon spoke to the silence of the motley group, “Ryou, I think Bakura needs to talk to you. Also, I think you need to be honest about your current relapse.”

Ryou blushed and Bakura crossed his arms. Both boys did not want to bare the secrets closest to their souls.

Yami said, “I think Grandpa is right.”

Ryou exhaled, and like a dam, admitted he was, in fact, in a relapse, and he needed the help of his therapist. “I’m sorry for putting it on you Bakura; it’s not fair to you.”

Yami placed a hand on Bakura’s shoulder, a silent giving of strength.

Bakura uncrossed his arms. “Um. It’s kind of hard...” He glowered at his inability to express the secret that had taken over his life. The secret that seemed so normal to him, but to Ryou... How would Ryou react? Finally, with a growl, he shoved the sleeve of his co-dominant arm up to his elbow, and muttered an apology.

Bakura could see the damage done. The silver-white of healed cuts interspersed with flaming red, newly healed scars, the layers of cuts, undulating and worn, a scarred patchwork of despair, the bright red of newer cuts, still brimming with blood: all of it was etched into his skin, a reveal-all in macabre litany.

Ryou said nothing. A long moment of awkward silence passed.

Then, a tear leaked out of glassy eyes. “Oh, Bakura,” Ryou moaned.

“Bakura...” Ryou held the scarred arm within his hands. A full minute passed where Ryou simply held the injured arm as if it was the weight of the world. He blinked, and raw determination set upon his features. “We’ll get you help.”

Bakura just shrugged, all his emotions purged out earlier. He knew the inevitable therapy awaited him.

Ryou stared directly into Bakura’s eyes. “You deserve help, Bakura.”

...

After Ryou had excused himself to freshen up and Solomon to make niceties with the Kaiba brothers, Yami and Bakura found themselves alone in the game shop once more. Bakura sat upon the couch, whilst Yami sat to the side in one of the reclining chairs by the table that was normally scattered with duel monsters information. This silence was the type shared between two people whom did not necessarily need to speak to one another, a trusting peace.

“Sometimes, I would cut myself, like off a rock of a tomb or on a dagger.” Bakura said into the quiet work space, turned reveal.

“You mean back then, as a theif king?” Yami asked. Bakura nodded

“It added to the high of stealing. In that moment, I had everything, even dominion over myself.”

“And without it, I have nothing.” Bakura muttered, closing into himself. “Stealing was all I ever knew.”

“Well, we’re going to change that,” Yami said. He grabbed Bakura by the hand and pulled him into the daylight, into the living room, where only Yugi and Marik remained. The two were in conversation about a video game that just released. Yami continued to pull Bakura through the game shop, across the block, to the play park.

Bakura and Yami stood by the whistling November trees of the small play park. The little boy and his mother were at the swings again. Bakura smirked, a sort of smile, but laced with years of melancholia.

Yami sidled up between the thick branches of a tree. “What was your childhood like, Bakura?”

Bakura shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“Bakura,” Yami prompted.

A sigh. “It wasn’t good; you know that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bakura pressed his lips together, as if trying to prevent more honest truisms from escaping. His dominant hand found it’s way to his wrist.

Yami caught his Bakura’s hand in his own. “Talk, please.”

Eyes glared at the former Pharaoh. Through clenched teeth, Bakura said, “I know it wasn’t your fault, okay! It’s just easier…”

“Easier than what?”

A shrug was Yami’s answer. Then, “Anger is easy, rage, even easier. If I hated you, then, well I wouldn’t be here.”

A shiver worked down Yami’s spine. Surely Bakura wasn’t referencing suicide. “You don’t mean—”

“No,” said firmly. “Here. Crying like a fucking idiot—”

Yami whirled around to face Bakura, grasping both of his wrists in his hands unconsciously as he tried to make his point sink in Bakura’s psyche. “That is a good thing, Bakura!”

Bakura hissed at the contact to one of many stinging cuts, and Yami immediately let go. “Bakura, crying is healthy; cutting or starving yourself like Ryou, so you don’t feel anything, isn’t.”

“I guess,” Bakura muttered the verbal equivalent to a shrug. All ambivalence.

“No, I promise it is.” Yami gazed out to where the little boy was swinging. “You know,” Yami ventured. “That kid is rather found of you.”

“I don’t know why,” Bakura said, relieved at the change of topics.

“Maybe you remind him of someone,” Yami said, smiling.

Bakura quirked an eyebrow. The kid was all of four or five, at best. Bakura doubted he had enough attention span or life experience to experience nostalgia.

“He reminds me of a mini you,” Yami continued.

Bakura scoffed.

“An innocent you, perhaps,” Yami amended.

Bakura laughed aloud. He agreed. “Very innocent, maybe.”

Yami lightly jabbed Bakura in the ribs. “You should swing with him.”

“Like hell.”

Teasing, Yami said, “But you’d make his entire day.”

“I assume you’re joking.”

The smile on Yami’s face widened. “I’ll join you.”

Bakura smirked back. The thought of the once high and mighty Pharaoh playing on park equipment like a child was awfully difficult to pass up. He deliberated for a few moments, before saying simply, “Sure.”

The look of surprise on Yami’s face was almost as delicious as the thought of him on a swing.

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Bakura said.

And the two jogged across the small hill to the play park and plopped down on a swing each next to the little boy who had hugged Bakura during one of his darkest moments. To the little boy, Bakura said, “I bet I can go higher than you and my friend here!”

The little boy squealed, and the two teenasgers and small boy proceeded to enter a swinging contest. The score did not matter, rather the smile on Bakura’s face as he finally accepted a part in this new life.

...

finis


	31. Music Inspiration

These songs have changed over time, but I have used all of them to inspire my writing.

  * Immortal – Adema
  * Forever Young – Alphaville
  * The Bad Touch – The Bloodhound Gang
  * Evil Angel – Breaking Benjamin
  * I Will Not Bow – Breaking Benjamin
  * What Lies Beneath – Breaking Benjamin
  * Standing Outside the Fire – Garth Brooks
  * Angel of Darkness – Alexis C
  * Disgusting – Miranda Cosgrove
  * Numb – Disturbed
  * Inner Strength – Hilary Duff
  * Missing – Evanescence
  * Sunburn – Fuel
  * Strawberry Gashes – Jack Off Jill
  * Call Me Maybe – Carly Rae Jepson
  * Faint – Linkin Park
  * In the End – Linkin Park
  * How Do You Get That Lonely – Blaine Larsen
  * Forgotten – Avril Lavigne
  * Even Angels Fall – Jessica Riddle
  * Walk Away From the Sun – Seether
  * Monster – Skillet
  * Awake and Alive – Skillet
  * Falling the Black – Skillet
  * I’m Just a Kid – Simple Plan
  * Circus – Brittney Spears
  * Pieces – Sum 41
  * Stand In the Rain – Superchick
  * Aemina – Tool
  * No Matter What – Yugioh
  * The Bird or the Worm—The Used
  * Numb—Linkin Park
  * Stand in the Rain—Superchick
  * Concrete Angel—Martina Mcbride
  * Kiss My Eyes and Lay Me to Sleep—AFI



**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Arthur is Professor Hawkins/Hopkins, Rebecca's grandfather. He's not going to play much of a role in this, but I think Solomon would refer to him on a first name basis if we're using English names (speaking of which).
> 
> I know the names of the characters are going to be an issue. It's kind of like teaching an old dog new tricks, just not going to happen. I tried to use the proper Japanese names, but three paragraphs later, I would find myself typing Tea rather than Anzu or Joey rather than Jounouchi. So I apologize for that. I do try to keep this relevant to Japanese culture because Yugioh is originally Japanese.
> 
> Clamshell (flip) cell phones did exist in 1998 (which is when I place this story in the Yugioh verse), but from what I could tell (from the god that is wiki), they were very expensive. Also, Japan was the first country to have cell phones that could access the internet, which was available in 1999. I imagine in 1998, there would be rumors about it. Sorry if the information is incorrect (wiki). I was nine in 1998, and didn't acquire a cell phone for another ten years.


End file.
